


Broken Oaths, Broken Hearts

by JosefAik



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, F/M, House Lannister, House Tarth, Jaime Lannister Lives, King's Landing, Major Original Character(s), Multi, Oathkeeper (ASoIaF), Original Character(s), POV Brienne of Tarth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:06:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 33,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24682015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JosefAik/pseuds/JosefAik
Summary: King's Landing has been destroyed, and what is left of the city has been left in political turmoil. Many of the great houses have been destroyed, with Highgarden, Sunspear and Storm's End now passing into the ownership of new families. Casterly Rock has passed into the hands of a new Lord, Jaime Lannister, who survived the slaughter. Reunited with Brienne of Tarth, the two of them must find out what is to come next for them. In a story that may still last for decades, who knows what may yet happen?
Relationships: Bran Stark & Brienne of Tarth, Brienne of Tarth and Lyara Lefford, Jaime Lannister & Edmure Tully, Jaime Lannister & Podrick Payne, Jaime Lannister & Tyrion Lannister, Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Jaime Lannister/Lyara Lefford, Meera Reed & Bran Stark, Meera Reed & Brienne of Tarth, Podrick Payne & Brienne of Tarth, Tyrion Lannister & Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 30
Kudos: 94





	1. The Dragonpit

The ash had barely settled over the city of King’s landing, or the ruins that remained of it, at any rate, before the dragon queen had been killed, her killer seized and sent into exile, deep into the frigid, icy depths of the frozen north. Had the death been worth the victory? Had they not risked their lives at Winterfell to protect the futures of these very people, whose bodies now fed the worms, thrown en mass into large pits, before being covered away by cold dirt? Had it been justice when Jon Snow had broken his oath and skewered Daenerys Targaryen upon his blade? 

Those were questions for the gathered council, but not for Brienne of Tarth. She stood to the side, watching them from the shade, her head cocked to the side, her brow furrowed. She had left the wolfskin cloaks behind at Winterfell, but now she felt nearly naked without them. The warmth was a curious stranger to her. It beat down across her whole body, so her brow was beaded with sweat, her eyes red from many sleepless nights. 

“If you hang around in the shadows then who will ever know what you think on matters of state, Ser Brienne.” 

The Dragonpit had been ruins before Daenerys Targaryen had come to the city, an abandoned relic of a bygone era. She turned as she heard the voice, to find the speaker perched atop a stack of rocks, a smile plastered across his face, the wrinkles at the corner of his mouth and eyes a sign of his humour. He had shorn the beard when he had returned to the land of sunlight, though he had kept his hair long. She preferred it like that, and so she had told him. His playful green eyes danced in the light, and she almost melted before them. 

“How in the seven hells did you ever climb up there with only one hand?” 

Ser Jaime Lannister shrugged, the smile not leaving his lips. He rested his shortened arm on his knee, and ran the fingers of his left through his hair, his eyes never leaving her. 

“I had help from your boy. He gave me a hand, you could say.” 

He gestured behind him, where Brienne could just about make out the stout frame of Podrick Payne disappearing into the undergrowth that surrounded the ruin. That was Ser Podrick Payne now, of course, for she had knighted him straight after the Battle at Winterfell. He had earned that title, with hard work, sweat and blood, just as she had. 

“I had not known that the two of you had grown so close as for him to help you in your schemes to ambush me. Besides, should you not be sat up there, with the other high lords and ladies?” 

Jaime shrugged again, dismissively, as if he hadn’t even considered the thought. 

“I have... History with Lord Tully, and I do believe that the Stark girls are still not warm to me. I fear there would be no place for the Lord of the Rock at such proceedings. Besides, my little brother will represent my house well enough.” 

Brienne looked back at the raised dais. Gathered there were heroes of the realm, Sam the Slayer, Arya Stark, Tyrion the Imp, who had united the armies of dragon and wolf, surrounded by men who had hid away in their castles, and let their armies and their men die for them. They would discuss the future of the realm, but what would they do for all those who had given their lives in service to it? How would they be remembered? 

It looked as if Tyrion was in the midst of some speech as she looked away, back at Jaime. Her face hardened as she did, and he sensed the change in atmosphere, the smile vanishing from his own face in turn. 

“We must talk.” 

Jaime looked from side to side, and then opened his mouth slightly, as he did when he was confused, cocking his head to the side. 

“I believe we already are talking, are we not? We are exchanging words at the very least. Do you wish us to do something else?” 

Why did he make serious discussions impossible? What was it about him that made him dodge actual confrontation? Had he been twisted by all those years sneaking behind closed doors with Cersei? Or was that just the way that the Lannister children had been brought up by their father? She had heard stories about Tywin Lannister, and few of them were good. 

“I was visited last night, by the future king. He asked me if... If I wanted a place on his Kingsguard. I would have to swear off lands, and titles, and my family- And you.” 

The silence hung between them, as Jaime looked down at her, shocked speechless, unsure as to what to say. She hated that she had to tell him this, that she had to dash his feelings, that she had to shatter what they had forged together in the fires of battle and war. She remembered when she had first met him, the way that he had spoken to Lady Catelyn. How she would have liked to make him feel this pain then, but now it made her insides broil and her heart ache. She couldn’t have known back then just how she would feel about her lion, and yet here she was, throwing those feelings aside. 

“There... There is no king. How could you have been asked? They haven’t decided yet. They- I-” 

She closed her eyes and bowed her head as he spoke, trying to hold back the tears, for she knew that this would only get worse, that this experience would only get harder. She could not fold. She could not weaken. 

“The king will be bran Stark, Bran the Broken. He has foreseen it. He wishes for me to serve as his Lord Commander, Jaime. I had to- I had to say yes. I had to.” 

Jaime’s mouth was open now, in shock, and she could see the glistening signs of tears forming in the corner of his eyes. She thought that they seemed less twinkly than they had a few moments ago, before she had told him the bitter truth. 

“Because he said that it was predetermined? Who cares what he sees in his hallucinations? Which of the Seven looks out for lunatics and-” 

She cut him off, her tone as gentle as she could manage, though she feared she sounded abrupt and overbearing. He had the right to feel pain at this. It was the same pain that she had felt the whole night before, not sure how to tell him the truth, even though she knew that he must be told. 

“Because I swore an oath.” 

She let out a deep breath after that, wanting to steady herself before her explanation, biting her lip slightly to keep herself alert. When she looked back at him, she saw hurt, and pain, and desperation in that face, in those tears, in those eyes, those eyes that she had come to love so very much, and she was the cause of it all. 

“I swore an oath to Lady Catelyn that I would protect her children. I swore an oath to Sansa Stark that I would serve her family. I hold those words to heart. They are a part of me, and now I must repay them. My lady may be dead, but her children are not. I can give my life to them, to repay the debt that I owe her. To make up for my failures.” 

Catelyn Stark had birthed five children by her husband, three boys and two girls, and now three remained alive. Her eldest, Robb, had been killed alongside her at the Twins, and there had been little that Brienne could have done, but the youngest, little Rickon... She had failed him, and in letting him die she had failed Lady Stark. Through doing this maybe she could atone, at least in some part. 

“You helped bring those girls home. You fought and risked your life so that they had a home to go to. You owe them nothing, and you never failed them. Never.” 

The words were empty platitudes, designed only to make her feel better on the inside, but there was nothing he could say that would change her mind, not now. She had failed to save Sansa from Ramsay, prioritising her own revenge over her duty, and failed to save Rickon too. Surely if anyone in the Seven Kingdoms could know how she felt then it was Jaime, who had betrayed his oath before, even if it was for the right reasons. He was better than she was. She had only betrayed her oath out of selfishness and anger. 

“I can make you the Lady of the Rock, the richest woman in the Seven Kingdoms. I can give you anything that you have ever wanted.” 

She shook her head as he pleaded with her, desperation clouding his words. Tears had started to run down her cheeks now. She could not hold them back any longer. 

“You know me well enough to know that those things do not concern me. Being your wife... It would be enough to sway me away, but how could I do that to you, my love? How could I make you look at me every day, your wife, the oathbreaker? How could I look at myself?” 

She walked to where Jaime sat, taking his hand into hers. She had never been so tactile, but the last few months with him had made her more comfortable with the physical contact. Their hands were both rough, calloused from their time at the sword, training and working to become warriors, knights. He pulled away from her, however, before staring into her eyes, his body quivering slightly as he tried to repress the tears. 

“You made me want to redeem myself. You made me fight for the goodness inside me, and yet here we are, and I can’t let you go to do the same. I have let you go so many times, and now I don’t know if I can do it again.” 

He dropped down from his perch, landing with a thud, his knees bent slightly, before he stood upright and tall, slightly shorter than she was, but their eyes locked together. His lips were a few inches in front of hers, and how she wanted to connect them, to share their passion, their love, and their respect, but she could not. 

“When I saw you sail away from Riverrun I knew in my heart that we would see each other again, that we still had time to embrace and to love each other, but this time I don’t see how that can be.” 

He sighed. It was deep and quavering, as he was fighting back the sobs. She had never seen him, not like this. Her lion, who was usually so stoic and strong, was broken, and it had been she that had done it. Even when he had lost his swordhand, Ser Jaime had tried to remain strong, but now he was showing weakness, though she did not judge him for it. 

“Ours will be a story that they tell for many years, Ser Brienne, but I understand why you must do this. It is for the same reason that I kept returning to my family. That is your oath, that is your duty.” 

His acceptance almost broke her as much as having to tell him had. Her hand moved to her mouth, covering the guttural noise that she instinctively let out, tears well and truly rolling down her reddened cheeks, before dripping to the floor. 

When she had met Renly Baratheon, she had thought him to be the very best of men. She had seen him as honest, and just, and kind, but life had shown her that such things were not always so simple. Renly may have been a good man, but he was haunted by his ghosts, and plagued by his lies. She had never loved him, not truly. She had hardly known him, but she did know Jaime. 

Who would have thought that, of all the men in the Seven Kingdoms, it would be the infamous Kingslayer in whom she found all those qualities? Jaime did not hide things from her, not since that day in the Harrenhal bathhouse, when he had told her of the good that he had done, and forever been marked as a villain for. It had been his kindness that had saved her when the Bolton men had come for her in the night. 

“Besides, it shall not be the last we see of each other, even if we cannot love each other as we have. You will not be rid of me so easily, Ser Brienne.” 

Jaime managed to force a smile through his tears, and she couldn’t hold back a little laugh, though it was quickly replaced by a moan of sadness. She tried to blink away her tears, so that she could look into the face of her lion love. He moved his left hand to her face, cupping her cheek tenderly. 

“I cannot agree with your decision, but I can respect it. And who knows? Maybe our story is not yet at its final chapter.” 

Jaime leaned in for a kiss, and she melted into him, their lips pressed together, their bodies entwined. She felt him, she tasted him, but eventually she pulled away from him, looking deep into his green eyes, a gaze of forlorn love and eternal loss. He returned it, the creases of laughter and happiness gone, instead replaced by a sombre smile and a watery glisten to his usual gorgeous eyes. 

“Maybe one day... But it cannot be today.” 

She separated herself from his embrace, walking over to a stack of ruined stone just behind them, pulling a rough, brown satchel out from underneath a vibrant, green bushel. It was heavy, with a thin shape. She carried it to Jaime, and then pulled off the satchel, revealing a sword, the steel rippled red, with a Lannister gold hilt, embossed with a large, striking ruby. She held the hilt out to him, and he gently caressed it, before taking it from her. 

“Widow’s Wail... Tyrion took this from me before the massacre. Where did you get it?” 

“Your brother gave it to me, but it isn’t mine to wield. Our swords are twins. I will carry mine, and you will carry yours. That way, we will forever be connected.” 

He took the blade, and swung it a few times, cutting through the air with a zip. She buckled a swordbelt around his waist, and he sheathed the blade, though he kept his hand on the hilt. She had thought he looked strange without a weapon, almost as if he was a lion robbed of his claws. 

“I think it could do with a new name. Widow’s Wail is just so... Vulgar.” 

A wistful look passed into Jaime’s eyes for a few seconds. Brienne knew of what he was thinking. He was thinking about Joffrey, about all three of his children, and how he believed he had failed them. The ghosts of the past haunted Jaime more than they did her. She knew who visited him every time he slept. Rhaegar Targaryen and Arthur Dayne, Joffrey, Tommen and Myrcella, even Cersei. She hoped that she had helped keep those ghosts at bay, at least a little. 

“A great man once told me that I should take the words that men throw at me and make armour out of them, so as to make it that they can never hurt me. Instead, I will make a sword of them. I will name this blade Kingslayer, and hope that it never has to fulfill that role.” 

“It is a good name.” 

She spoke the words softly, not wanting the tears to restart. He offered her the stump of his right hand, as if for a handshake. That made it harder for her. 

“You will be forever marked for the kindness that you showed me, and yet I cannot repay the favour.” 

Jaime placed his good hand upon her shoulder, his eyes filled with twinkling kindness once again. There was no snarky comment, not now, not at this goodbye. 

“You have repaid that kindness a thousand times over, Ser Brienne. You have made of me a good man. That is a debt that can never be repaid.” 

She shook her head at that, instinctively, with no need to think. 

“I did not make you a good man. I think I merely helped a good man who was lost refind his way. I love you, Jaime Lannister, Kingslayer.” 

He breathed in and out through his nose, steadying and readying himself, his arm still against her shoulder. He pulled her in for one final embrace. It was tender, affectionate, warm, everything that she would miss about him. He was strong, but he had known loss, he had known pain. He would not hide those feelings away, not from her. Was she a fool for doing this? 

As she doubted herself in that moment, he pulled away, that same warm, playful smile back on his face, though his cheeks were wet and reddened from tears, his eyes slightly bloodshot. 

“And I love you, Ser Brienne, the Maid of Tarth. Until our paths cross next.” 

And then he left her, no more arm on her shoulder, no more words spoken in hushed whispers, no more cheeky smiles as he drank from a goblet of wine, no more Jaime. She watched him go, striding away into the great unknown, out of the Dragonpit and out of her life. A single, involuntary tear ran down her cheek as he vanished from sight. 

She turned then, her face hardened, her soul and body ready for what came next. She was Brienne of Tarth, and it was time for her to do her duty, and to keep her oaths. This was the time where her watch began.


	2. The Lion's Bride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five years have passed since the destruction of King's Landing and the coronation of the wolf. With Brienne bound in service to the king, and Jaime now serving as the Lord of the Rock, can the two heroes of Winterfell accept the changes that must come? They are bound by love, and separated by duty, but out of the ashes, flame can rise again.

It was five years since Brienne had let Jaime leave the Dragonpit. He had rode away for Casterly Rock before they had seen each other again, and now she was here, at the newly reconstructed Lion Gate, waiting alone. 

King Brandon had called for a feast, to commemorate the five years since the dragon had been slain, and all the lords of the realms had been invited to attend. Lord Edmure Tully had arrived a few days before, along with his wife, the Lady Roslin, and their nine-year-old son, Brynden. As such, the Tully forces had taken over much of the Red Keep. Tully banners now joined the wolf of Stark in flying from the parapets. They were expecting Lords Baratheon and Arryn within the next days, but she would not be out to greet them. She was here for Jaime. 

Much of the city was still in ruins, though the king had seen fit to restore the gates and the walls, as well as the more profitable and necessary areas. The infamous King’s Landing fish market had been rebuilt a few months ago, and business was starting to return to the city. Brienne cared little for the political or economic side of things, but it kept the people happy, and that was good for the realm. 

The Lion Gate was adorned with golden finery, though it was ornamental, and not real gold, for obvious reasons. Statues of two growling lions stood either side, looking into the city, a reminder of the might of the Rock. They had been made by the finest stonemasons of the Westerlands, crafted with great skill and artistry. 

“You await my brother too, Ser Brienne.” 

She looked behind her with a start, surprised that anyone had managed to sneak up on her. Stood there, plain as day, was the Hand of the King, Tyrion Lannister, her Jaime’s brother. They called him Halfman, and he embraced it, though she knew there to be some strength in his little body. He was clever, too clever for her liking, but she had learned to accept it. He had the same green eyes as Jaime, but his seemed to shine in a different way. Tyrion Lannister looked like a man that knew he was likely the smartest person in whatever room he held court in. Looking at him now, Brienne wondered how he had gone so underestimated for so much of his life. 

“I am awaiting Lord Jaime to welcome him into the city, at the behest of our king...” 

She tried to sound convincing, but she could tell from Tyrion’s raised eyebrow that he wasn’t buying it. She pursed her lips, determined not to make more of a fool out of herself. In truth, she had been privately excited for the last few days, trying to hide it publicly behind an austere and serious gaze. She had found her mind drifting towards thoughts of Jaime more and more. Thoughts of his laughing eyes, his perfect face, his soft lips... 

It was wrong of her, of course, for she was sworn to celibacy, and yet still it happened. Jaime was in her mind, and he would be there always. He had been the only man she had confessed her love to, for she had been too cowardly with Renly. Now she had experienced love and loss, she saw that what she had felt for Renly was not love. What she had felt with Jaime had been so much more than that. They had been separated for so many years. She had to be here to see him again. 

“You will also be welcoming by brother’s bride, I assume. She rides with him, you know?” 

Brienne bristled at that comment, though that had been the point of it, of course. She had heard about Jaime’s young bride, Lady Lefford, but she preferred not to think on it. Jaime had the chance to move on from her. That was what she had given him. He had the chance to love and to fuck and to marry. She did not blame him for falling for someone else, if that had been what happened. She had forsaken, and he needed to find happiness somehow. 

“I find that my brother has mixed taste in women. I greatly anticipate seeing what Lyara is like. Her father was an old man when I knew him, but he liked a drink. He was my kind of fellow. I hear his daughter is as unlike him as you are want to find, and as unlike someone else that I know...” 

Tyrion left the words hanging, shooting her a knowing look, likely to see how she reacted, but she had grown use to the Imp’s barbs. He used his insults to learn more, and she was determined to keep her continued feelings for Jaime to herself. 

“Riders on the road! Riders on the road!” 

The words were called down by the sentry above them, and Tyrion turned to her, a smile plastered across his face. 

“The moment of truth, Ser Brienne. Let us see what awaits us both.” 

He turned back to the gate then and called up to the sentry. 

“Open the gates! Open the gates for the lion of Lannister!” 

She heard grunting and panting from above them, but the gates did swing open, revealing the Gold Road, trailing out into the distance, out into the hills and fields of the Crownlands, and along the northern banks of the Blackwater Rush. She could see the horses approaching at a leisurely pace, a league or so away from the city. Just then, two of the horses pulled away from the group, racing forward and along the road. A few minutes later, and the horses galloped through the gates, and into the square beyond. Their riders easily dismounted, and Brienne’s heart skipped a beat as she laid eyes on the first of them. 

Jaime had not changed at all since she had last seen him. He had the same twinkling eyes, maybe now tinged with a touch of melancholy, the same easy smile, and the same swaggering posture. Had she not known otherwise, she felt that she could easily have been looking at a portrait of Ser Jaime from that day in the Dragonpit. 

His companion was a less welcome sight. Lyara Lefford was young, half Jaime’s age, if not younger, with short blonde hair, a demure face and well-crafted features. Her ears had a slight point to them, and there was an arrogant cockiness about her thin-lipped smile. Her eyes shone a dazzling blue colour. She wore red riding robes, and a glittering bejewelled ring was worn on her left hand. She was everything that Brienne had hoped she wouldn’t be. 

Lyara offered Tyrion her hand, and he gently kissed it on the knuckle, before being warmly embraced by his brother, with Jaime going down on one knee, so that they were on the same level. Brienne did not interject during these pleasantries, instead standing to one side, awkwardly and uncomfortably. She met eyes with Lyara, and quickly looked away, for she was sure that the girl knew what Brienne had been to Jaime. She was not here to cause trouble; she just wanted a look. 

“Ser Brienne, I thought I would have to wait until the feast to see you. Come, look at me. I wish to see your eyes judging me again, as they used to do so well.” 

She closed her eyes for a few seconds, steeling herself for what came next, before looking back up, straight at Jaime, who stood smiling, just in front of her. There were a few seconds where neither of them moved or spoke, and then he held out his arms and wrapped her in an embrace. She melted into it almost instantly, but he pulled away all too soon, leaving her wishing for more. Unfortunately, Lyara appeared at his shoulder. 

“Husband dearest, your brother says that he wishes to take you for a drink before you visit the king. Ser Brienne, I have heard tales of your bravery from my husband and bards alike. Would you escort me to the castle? I fear the streets may not be safe for me to walk alone.” 

There was something disingenuous to the way that Lyara spoke, as if the demure manner was merely an act. Brienne wouldn’t have spotted that when she had first come to King’s Landing, but years here had forced her to grow wiser. Still, denying her would only serve to make Brienne seem petty. 

“Gladly, my Lady. Would you wait for your husband’s company and baggage?” 

Lyara waved away her question, with a swift, dismissive movement of the hand and a placating smile. Her eyes reminded Brienne more of Tyrion than Jaime. They weren’t playful or jesting, more enigmatic and scheming, as if she was always one step ahead, looking for a way to seize her advantage over you. 

“Ser Addam Marbrand will see that such things are in order. I would rather see the Red Keep, the hall of the Iron Throne, and look over the ruins of the city from the battlements.” 

She turned to Jaime and Tyrion. Brienne saw no love in the woman’s eyes when she looked at her husband, nothing to suggest that she thought of Jaime the way that Brienne did. 

“I will see you later mine husband. Do not drink too much, lest you spill things that cannot be so simply cleaned up.” 

Jaime gently nodded his head, though Brienne blushed to find that his eyes were firmly transfixed on her. She tried to swallow her down her embarrassment, quickly looking down at the dusty ground. She was a knight of the Kingsguard, and feeling such things was forbidden. She had already scolded herself for feeling herself wetten as she had thought of Jaime the night before. She could not allow such feelings to get in the way of her duty. 

“Keep Lady Lyara intact, Ser Brienne. It would be such a shame for anything to happen to one so young and so pretty.” 

With one last quip from the Dwarf of the Rock, Jaime and Tyrion disappeared into the sprawling maze of ruins and rubble, to find one of the few taverns that had reopened its doors. Inns and brothels had been amongst the first institutions to refind their feet, for after the Unsullied left, there were few men who didn’t want a whore. 

“Come then, Ser Brienne. You can tell me stories of your adventures as we walk.” 

Brienne sighed, but started walking in-step with Lyara. There was a decided height difference, so Brienne watched her stride, not wanting to insult the lady, even if she thought her a poor match for Jaime. The girl was too cunning and conniving. She did not compliment the man that Jaime had become in the same way that Brienne had. Though maybe that was the point. 

“Jaime told me all about how you fought side by side at the Battle of Winterfell. I was most awed by your bravery, Lord Commander.” 

Something about the woman had changed. She no longer spoke with a drafty tone, and instead seemed more focused and genuine. Brienne suspected that she wasn’t lying when she spoke, and instead actually meant her compliment. She felt a slight pang of pain at Jaime’s name in her mouth, but she moved past it. 

“I was no braver than he was himself. Less so, probably, given what he had to abandon to join our side. If he does not speak of such things, then he undersells himself.” 

They walked underneath the ruins of the Great Sept of Baelor. A small coven of Septons had built a shrine in its ruins, though rubble still littered the streets. A man named Luceon was High Septon now, though he commanded little power, and ruled out of the Starry Sept in Oldtown. This was the remnant of what Cersei Lannister accomplished in this city. The rest had been reversed by Bran the Broken or burnt to ash by the dragon before him. 

“I know all too well of the things Jaime sacrificed to go north, though I think they were no sacrifice at all, given the way he speaks of you. And of your first night together.” 

Those words caused Brienne so much shock that she stopped in her tracks, stood stock still in the middle of the wreckage. What had Jaime been doing when he told this bitch about their time together? How could he have revealed so personal a moment? How could he have shamed Brienne so much? Did he not care? 

Lyara was stood a few steps in front of her now, seeming smaller than she had before, so breakable and delicate. Her eyes were doeful and pleading, but Brienne saw behind them. She saw what this girl was. 

“He really loved you.” 

Was she gloating? Was she rubbing it in Brienne’s face that she, a stranger, had won Jaime’s heart? The anger that Brienne had felt for a moment was replaced by one of immense sorrow and loss, for now she saw that Jaime had truly moved on, if he was so willing to discard information that should have been kept between the two of them. 

“He still does. Though I am quite sure that he would not tell you that. He thinks doing so would tempt you, because he knows how it feels to be in your place, to have to try and put duty and honour over love and passion. He failed, and he doesn’t wish for you to fail like him. He’s quite foolish, really.” 

Brienne exhaled at that, as if she was releasing her pent-up hatred and anger, her sadness and despair, replaced by a feeling of fleeting unsteadiness, a fickle change from rage to blanket unknown. She looked at the girl before her and saw something completely different than she had before. The eyes were not doeful or scheming, they were kind and concerned, her lips parted slightly, as if she was preparing to speak in defence. For some reason, she was scared. 

Then Brienne realised that she had balled her fists in anger. She released them and sighed, her shoulders heaving, a pressure released from her, like the weight of the world had been taken from her back. 

“How can you speak of such things when you are husband and wife? Does it not upset you?” 

Lyara smiled in relief, a gladness passing over her face. She must have been terrified. Brienne understood that, she supposed. In a fight between the two of them there would have been zero contest. 

“I have heard a lot about you, Lord Commander, both from my husband and from bards that frequent our court, for you are immortalised in song. It is because of these stories that I believe I can trust you, and because Jaime trusts you, and I trust him. I can accept that my husband loves you, Brienne of Tarth, because he knows that I cannot love him, in the way that a wife should.” 

Brienne didn’t understand. She spoke of bards and love, but what prevented this woman from loving a man like Jaime. He was handsome, blessed with charm and wit, was a hero of the realm, lauded from Dorne to the North, and that was no easy feat for a lion of Lannister. 

“I love my husband very much. He is a man of kindness, but I cannot be in love with him, you see? I can accept that he loves you and ever will, because he accepts that I love a serving girl by the name of Jeyne, who I have known my whole life, and loved for most of it. We will have children, I am sorry to tell you, but it will never be the love that the two of you shared. Me and Jaime are bound by the fact that we cannot love the people that we adore. I cannot love him in the way that you do, and he cannot love me in the way that he loves you.” 

Lyara stopped speaking, and looked away, towards the ruins of the Great Sept. Brienne was left in silence, absorbing what the girl had told her. It was a lot. Jaime still loved her, even though he had wed someone else. She did not need feel jealous of this girl, for she was just as much caged by love as Brienne was. She was a prisoner of duty, prevented from showing her true feelings to the world. 

“That feeling of being with the one that you love is akin to pure bliss across lifetimes, I find. Whether it is out in the open, or behind closed doors. A brief moment of such a feeling is worth all the pain suffered to get there.” 

Lyara turned her eyes back to Brienne, a small tear running down her pretty face. Brienne understood what the girl had gone through. To hide away your feelings, to suppress them and pretend that they didn’t exist, to hope that nobody discovered your deepest shame. Was love not supposed to make people stronger? It seemed that all it did was place obstacles in the way of duty and honour and loyalty. 

“If you wish to sleep with my husband then I will not stand in your way, Ser Brienne. Nor will I judge you for it.” 

It was Brienne’s turn to feel a scalding tear run down her face, her eyes wet and glistening with sadness that she just wanted to release. She wiped it away, stoically, before meeting the gaze of her beloved’s wife. 

“I am bound by duty to my sword and to my cloak. I cannot.” 

Lyara put her hand to her mouth for a few seconds, and when she pulled it away, Brienne saw a smile of understanding and compassion. It was accompanied by a slight shake of the head, and another run of tears. 

“I do believe that stories of your determination and willpower have understated. I could not do what you have done. I think there are few people alive that could.” 

Brienne bowed her head under the compliments, letting them wash off her. It did little good to dwell on praise, and more good to focus on what one could do better. That was what she had told Podrick. 

“We are bound together, Ser Brienne, so I do hope that we can find friendship amidst this strange relationship, for I admire you deeply, and feel that, in all the Seven Kingdoms, there is no woman I would rather have on my side.” 

Brienne nodded slightly, fighting back the tears of sadness and joy that her eyes wished to summon. She had found the truth of Jaime’s love today, and it felt like she had lost him all over again. She had gone in to today expecting to hate Lyara Lefford, but had found a woman that knew pain and secrets almost as much as she herself. Maybe she could be Lyara’s friend, now that she knew what she knew. 

“In all the Seven Kingdoms... Yes, I think we can.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey  
> So that was chapter two. I appreciate Lyara might seem like a strange inclusion, but I hope you liked her nonetheless. So I am a bit unsure how the next installment of this series should be, and thought I'd leave one of these to have an ask. Would you rather that we continue to follow solely Brienne, or would you prefer for the odd Jaime chapter to crop up every now and again? If you can, tell me what you think in the comments. I will try to listen. Anyway, hope you enjoyed the chapter. Thank you for reading!


	3. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Jaime Lannister, King's Landing is the site of many things. It was where he earned the name Kingslayer, for his finest deed. It was where he fathered his three golden-haired children, all of whom he lost. It as where he stood, amidst ruins, the day that he lost his longest, truest love. Now he is home, styled as Jaime Lannister, Lord of Casterly rock, to come to terms with his legacy, with the damage that he has brought onto the Seven Kingdoms. He must come face to face with the shades of his past, as well as with the woman he loves.

As the lions ambled along the Gold Road, Jaime Lannister felt his expectations, excitement and dread increase in equal portions. There was much for him to love in this city. It had been his home for so very long, and his brother still lived here, serving the king and the realm, and then there was her. That was where much of the dread came from. The last time that he had been in the city he had his heart broken, his life wrecked, and his very being shattered into countless pieces. He would see her again here, and, though he did not blame her for placing her honour over their love, he was not sure he could meet her and not comment on it. 

The road passed around the corner of a hillock, and the sprawling ruins of King’s Landing came into view. From here, he could see the Great Sept of Baelor, a monument to his sister’s destructive prowess, and the Dragonpit, where he had last laid eyes on his Brienne. Rising above both were the towers and parapets of the Red Keep, still blackened by the flames that had consumed it, but rebuilt, under the guidance of Bran the Broken. The Red Keep overlooked the city, or what was left of it, and cast a shadow over Blackwater Bay beyond it. 

“Shall we race to the city, husband mine?” 

He was pulled from his thoughts by Lyara’s words. She looked at him, her head cocked, the whisper of a smile upon her pretty lips, a wistful, concerned look in her eyes. She was worried about him, about his silence. She knew what awaited him when they passed through the gates. She was trying to allieve his worries about that. 

He smiled at her, reassuring her that he wasn’t lost in the depressing lands of the past, falling victim to the ghosts and the shades that stalked him, especially when it came to this place, to this city. He pulled at the reins of his horse, urging it into a gallop, letting the wind whip through his hair as they raced along the winding path that led to King’s Landing. He heard her laughing, her short hair ruffled in the wind. He pulled ahead though, as the gate opened before them, racing across the threshold of the city, and the finish line. 

He wheeled his horse around, the race freeing himself from the burdens of thought and hindsight, committing his mind to competitivity, and a broad smile had found its way upon his face, his breaths coming in short pants. Then he saw the people that were waiting for him. 

Tyrion was dressed in Lannister red clothes, the Hand of the King pin worn proudly upon his breast. His beard was bushy, a mix of dark and light hair, though Jaime spied some grey in his brother’s locks. Age was starting to catch up with the pair of them. 

It was to the other figure that his eyes were drawn. Brienne stood tall, dressed in light, white armour, her white cloak hanging heavy around her shoulders. Jaime was all too familiar with that burden. She wore her hair even shorter than Lyara, swept back. It was greasy and unwashed, though he did not care. Her eyes were fierce and intense, as they always had been. He had not fallen for her for her looks, but for her will, her strength, and the man that she had made him want to be. He was reminded of that as he gazed upon her. 

It was Tyrion that came to embrace him as he dismounted his ride. Jaime sunk to his knees to bring his brother close to him. 

“It has been too long, brother. The whorehouses of Lannisport mourn your absence deeply.” 

He whispered the quip into his brother’s ear, and they parted, a knowing smile on the little lion’s face. His eyes flickered slightly, as if he was supressing some laughter at his own private joke. 

“There are people in this city who mourn your absence too, brother mine. Though I see that you have found some way to move on from that.” 

Jaime shot his brother a short scowl, but saw an impish, mischievous look flash over Tyrion’s face. He knew what he was saying. To him, it was all part of the game. Jaime sighed deeply, before turning to Brienne. 

“Ser Brienne, I thought I would have to wait until the feast to see you. Come, look at me. I wish to see your eyes judging me again, as they used to do so well. “ 

He hid his real thoughts behind his words, in the way that his father and Cersei had taught him. One couldn’t play the game if you couldn’t mask your feelings and your intentions. He hoped that Brienne was too pure to see through his mask. He had experienced much of the harm this could do to a person when he had been seeing Cersei in this city behind Robert’s back. The roles had been switched now, though he was once again at the whims of a woman with her own priorities. 

He watched Brienne flush under his words, reminded of the way that she had always been uncomfortable around him, even when they had loved each other. He had always guided her. She was strong of mentality and will, but uncomfortable when it came to praise and words. She would live her life on the battlefield if she could, but had never been one for the halls of power. 

Lyara interjected then, speaking of her plans to visit the Red Keep. She would separate him and Brienne, not out of jealousy, but out of mercy. She knew how his heartstrings were pulled by the sight of the woman. By taking them apart she might spare him the hardship of further hiding his emotions. Brienne assented, though Jaime sensed some reluctance. It may have been her hoping to avoid alone time with Lyara, but a part of him hoped that it was her trying to spend more time with him. It was likely a fool’s hope, however. 

And then she was gone, and Jaime felt a part of his own heart leaving with her, departing upon the path up to the Red Keep, past the Great Sept, and he was left alone with Tyrion. 

“If you wish to have her, brother, then you might as well say. What is the worse that she can do to you now? Refuse your advances?” 

Jaime closed his eyes as his brother spoke, allowing him to picture Brienne once again, before moving his mind on to more pressing matters. He wiped away a single tear from the corner of his eye, before Tyrion could notice. 

“Worse yet, she could accept, and break her honour for me, brother. She would spend her life blaming me for doing that, and what love there was between us will be gone. It is better to have that love than for it to be gone forever.” 

He spoke the words more to reassure himself than anything else. He wasn’t quite sure that he believed the words that he spoke. He had lost Cersei when she had refused to leave with him, though he had never truly loved his sister, not in this way, and then Brienne had stolen herself from him. He had spent five years trying not to let that hurt fester inside him, for he did not want his memories of Brienne tarnished. They had been through so much together. She had gone from being nothing to him, to being everything, and yet somehow still nothing, for what was there between them now? 

She had given him the power to overcome the ghosts that had held him in place. The words of his father, the whims of his sister, the burden of the name that he carried, and the duty that he had held, and yet those things still held him down. The duty of his Lordship hung around his neck with all the weight of Casterly Rock, the words of his father haunted his dreams, reminding him of the legacy that he held in the balance, the name that he must continue. He may have been free of Cersei, but he was now enslaved to the wills of countless scheming lords and ladies. It was tiresome. 

“We play the game of women, brother mine, and there shall be no survivors. That heartbreak does not go away, but one must find a way to channel that pain, make it your weapon to make change for the better.” 

Jaime had forgotten that Tyrion had experienced his fairshare of heartbreak. First there had been Tysha, the crofter’s daughter, who he had loved so much and so briefly, but had been lost to him, and then Shae, the whore that had betrayed him. Tyrion had killed the latter, though had never relieved himself of the loss of the first. Jaime wondered if he should have dealt with losing Brienne in the way that Tyrion had reacted to Tysha, by sinking his thoughts in whores and drink. Maybe then he would be able to better think light of the situation. 

“Where in this city can a tired man purchase a drink? That is what you promised, is it not?” 

Tyrion laughed at that, and gestured for his brother to follow him deeper into the ruins. Jaime clapped his brother on the back as he walked past, and they descended into the labyrinth of broken stone. 

He remembered the city in its prime, so to see it in such a state hit him hard. He had never cared for the smells, or sounds, or look of this place, but to see it replaced with the still silence of a mausoleum was still eerie for him. They passed a few other people, who were hunched down under robes, disappearing down side-alleys when they saw Tyrion approach. A couple of older men nodded to the Hand as he passed them. Jaime was impressed. His brother had never been so respected, he suspected. 

They passed through a small courtyard containing a gate onto the northern part of the Kingsroad. The gate was flanked by two copper statues, showing the two Starks to have served as Hand. The first of them was Cregan Stark, dressed in battle-armour, as a warrior should be. The second was Eddard Stark. Jaime looked on the cold, austere face of the man, and remembered the fool that he had been when he had clashed with Lord Stark. He was a better man now, though Ned Stark would never get to see that. He quickly looked away from those cold, judgemental eyes, their gaze filling him with sadness. 

He knew that the southern gate of the Kingsroad was overlooked by a statue of Robert, and the gate itself flanked by Robert’s brothers. This was a city full of ghosts, and full of reminders for him of the sins that he had committed. Yet it was not these to which his mind turned, but to the woman that he had loved and lost. Did that make him selfish? Had he truly grown from the days when he had childishly followed Cersei around the Rock? The days when he had done her bidding at a moment’s notice? 

They eventually arrived at the tavern Tyrion had chosen. The building was a three story-affair, constructed of wood in the ruins of an old stone brewery. A sign hanging from above the door proclaimed itself as The Dragon’s Breath Inn. 

“One must have a sense of humour nowadays, I think.” 

Tyrion spoke, as Jaime stared up at the sign, his brow furrowed. 

“Which reminds me. Did I ever tell you of the time I walked into a brothel holding a honeycomb and pulling a donkey?” 

Just then, Tyrion was interrupted, as a small group of people stepped out from the tavern. They tried to carry themselves well, but it was clear they had been drinking, if only from the smell that eminated from them. Three of the men stood out to Jaime. The first of them wore a cloak of raven feathers. His face was cold and hard, his eyes dark. He was a Blackwood of Raventree Hall. The second was of a similar age, with a mischievous face and cheeky smile. He wore a silver eagle pendant, marking him out as a Mallister of Seagard. The last man stood at the centre of the pack. 

He had a lined, weathered face, as if time had not treated him well, with short-cut red hair, a long, thin nose, and beady, mistrusting eyes. He wore a jerkin of deep blue, under a brown doublet. His eyes narrowed as he looked upon Jaime, as the two of them had history. 

“Lord Lannister. What an unpleasant surprise.” 

He slurred his words slightly, though he did not mince them. Jaime was surprised at how abrupt Lord Edmure Tully was being, though the drink had likely loosened his tongue and lessened his senses. 

“Lord Edmure, I did not expect to see you down here. Do you not have an audience with the king?” 

“My nephew would rather spend his days convening with the trees of his Godswood than with his loyal subjects, and his Hand is here, entertaining his brother in a winesink. It would be easier arranging a meeting with Jon fucking Snow than either of you too.” 

Edmure shoved past Jaime at that remark, making his way back up towards the Red Keep. The path sloped slightly upwards, and Edmure walked at the back of his group, something of a malevolent prowl to the way he stepped, as if he was restraining his anger, though he was not doing such a good job of it. Jaime tried to resist himself, but he could not. 

“I was sorry when I heard the news of Roslin.” 

Edmure stopped, though the rest of his group seemed to quicken their pace, clearly not wanting a fight with Jaime. The Lord of Riverrun shot Jaime a side-look, still having his back to him, his upper lip contorted into a snarl of anger. 

“You were not sorry for Roslin when you threatened to catapult her and my boy over the walls of my own castle, Kingslayer. I see no reason why you would be sorry for her now.” 

And with that, he flicked his cloak along the ground and stormed back up to the castle, his words echoing through Jaime’s head. The resentment that the man felt for him was nothing new, though it had not mellowed with age. Could Jaime justify the way that he had spoken with Edmure before the walls of Riverrun? He had been doing it for Cersei, but when he had returned to her, he found the Great Sept destroyed and their last child driven to death. If only he had stayed... 

“He has had a hard life, brother mine. I would not linger on his words. They will do you no good.” 

Tyrion spoke to Jaime, an attempt to reassure him, though Jaime’s eyes were still fixed on the figure of Lord Edmure, as he rounded a corner and disappeared into the ruins. 

“He has had a hard life in part due to the actions of our family. My actions more than anyone else’s.” 

In silence, they entered the inn, and Jaime was met by the hustle and bustle that he had so missed through the rest of the city. The innkeep stood behind the bar, listening to the sad plight of some Rosby man, who moaned on and on about the taxation on his crops of rye. A trio of young knights, all wearing the lamb of Stokeworth, were engaged in a vociferous and loud quaffing contest, before one of them fell to the floor, relieving his breakfast in the dirt. A knight of the Kingsguard, adorned fully in a white cloak, stood with his back to them at the bar. It was to him that Tyrion headed, and when the man turned... 

“Podrick Payne, by the Seven! You have grown!” 

Podrick now stood at more than six feet, his pleasant, smiling features no different than before, but joined by muscles and bulk to back them up. Jaime pulled him into a bearhug, clapping the boy on the back as he released him. 

“Thank you, my Lord. The Lord Commander works me very hard.” 

There was a small flick of the eyes between Payne and Tyrion at that comment, and Jaime suspected that his brother had reminded the knight that he should mention Brienne by name as little as possible. Did his brother think him a little girl? He could hear the woman’s name without entering a lust-fuelled rage. 

“What would you like to drink, brother? A goblet of wine? Something stronger, perhaps?” 

Jaime waved away Tyrion’s suggestions. 

“Water is enough for me, brother. I fear it would do me no good to be intoxicated around you. Some form of disaster may ensue.” 

Tyrion bowed his head knowingly, and placed their order, with Podrick carrying their drinks to a secluded table at the side of the inn. Jaime sat himself down on one side, with Podrick and Tyrion upon the other. His brother sat there, lazily swirling his wine, swinging his legs under the table, before fixing Jaime with his discerning eyes, an impish smile upon his face. 

“Tell me, brother. Is it me who you do not wish to be drunk around, or do you fear that too many goblets of Arbor gold will see you sneak into Ser Brienne’s chambers this night?” 

Jaime could feel himself involuntarily flush under this line of questioning, but he waved it away with a swish of his hand and a smile. 

“I am married, brother. Did you not see my bride? She is very beautiful.” 

“Yes, I did see Lady Lyara. She is indeed a very attractive woman. I have also heard of her, rumours about the amount of time she likes to spend with her serving girls.” 

There was no malice to Tyrion’s words. He was not threatening Jaime, or Lyara, but still, it was a low move to quote such rumours, even if they were true. Lyara was a good wife, doting and caring, whilst also being quick and adventurous. She was no Brienne, though. 

“It is a wonder to me that you let Ser Brienne go with her. I believe our dear Lord Commander has sworn to take no husband, but mayhaps a woman within her sheets is not something she has forsworn. Maybe Lady Lyara will help her experience things that past lovers were unable to give her.” 

Tyrion sipped at his wine then, looking at Jaime over the brim of his goblet, his eyes afire with playful mischief. Jaime did not let the words get to him. He knew his brother, and he knew the games he liked to play. He had been expecting such taunting jests upon his arrival. Tyrion did it to make him stronger for when someone commented to him for real. 

“Even if I wished to dishonour my wife with Ser Brienne, she has made it very clear that she does not. She values her honour highly, and that is something that I understand and respect more than most would.” 

There was silence for that, and Jaime thought he had left his brother speechless, which shocked him momentarily, only for it to be Tyrion who next spoke. 

“That is curious. Ser Podrick, could you tell me where Ser Brienne was meant to be this morning just past.” 

Podrick looked up from his wine, trying to act as if he had not been listening to the past exchanges, but he was no trained liar, and it was clear that his ears had been pricked. 

“Guarding the king’s chambers, Lord Hand.” 

Tyrion turned to Jaime, a look of false confusion covering his features. He rose his right forefinger and gestured to Podrick. 

“And yet she was down at the Lion’s Gate greeting Ser Jaime to the city. Is it possible that she can be in two places at the same time?” 

“She swapped her duties with Ser Perwyn Frey and Ser Ian Whyte. She did not say why.” 

Tyrion’s face was now taken over by a look of wide-eyed shock. , looking between him and Podrick, as if he was struggling to find an explanation for the scenario that he had clearly prepared for. It was all part of the act, and so Jaime went along with it. 

“She rearranged her duties so that she could come to the Lion Gate and welcome you to the city, brother. She was not commander there by the King. She was there of her own choosing. That does not sound like a woman who has forgotten what the two of you once shared to me.” 

It was true that the thought of Brienne doing such a thing for him made his heart leap in his chest. Maybe she was as haunted by their separation as he was. Maybe she regretted her choice to place her duty over their love? 

But then his heart sank slightly. He wasn’t sure why at first, and then his mind caught up with his soul, and he realised. 

“What I love about Brienne is her strength and her willpower, her desire to be honest, and just, and true. Even if I were to go to her, and she were to accept me into her bed, then what? I would have taken from her the thing she valued the most, the thing that made me love her. I cannot inflict that upon her. I cannot make her resent me, as I deep down resented Cersei, for making her life, her ambitions, be restricted to me.” 

He slumped down in his seat then, a part of his mind lifted, for he felt as if, in that moment, he had realised the truth behind letting things go, but another part wallowing in the sadness that he did actually have to do it. He could not hope for a relapse into their old patterns. He could not hope for her to change her mind and come to him, for that was selfish, and ignorant of what it was that Brienne needed. She didn’t need him to pine for her. She didn’t need him to come here, with the hope of a small kiss, or a night together. She needed him to be strong, as she was, and to do the right thing by her. If he truly loved her then that was what he had to do. 

He had to let her go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there. I hope you liked that Jaime chapter. I appreciate it has been a while since the last update. I am aiming to release two stories on here a week. They might not always be updates to this series, but hopefully at least one new chapter installment a week until it ends. Just thought I would add this in to keep you all informed as to what my thoughts and plans are.


	4. Bran the Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gap between the star-crossed lovers has merely grown, with Jaime sequestering himself within Casterly Rock, and Brienne bound by her oaths to King Brandon Stark. The young monarch defines the very future of the realm, and the future of the story, as revelations are shared that may change the very dynamics of the Six Kingdoms.

Brienne of Tarth stood atop the White Sword Tower, looking out over the city of King’s Landing, the clamour of the marketplace echoing up to her. So much had changed in the last year and a half. Where once had stood the Dragonpit of the Targaryen kings now stood the Great Market of Westeros, where merchants gathered from across the known world to peddle their wares to smallfolk and high lords combined. With it had come wealth. Wealth enough to build a simple stone Sept within the ruins of the Great Sept of Baelor, to rebuild much of the Street of Steel, and build merchant ships aplenty, so that King’s Landing now had its toeholds in the markets of Braavos, Pentos, Lorath and Myr. The city was returning to what it once was. 

Yet something was missing. 

The hubbub did not abound, and to her it seemed as if the city did not sleep, yet it still lived in the ruins of the past. Lord Bronn said it would cost too much to clear out the rubble, but Brienne thought that the mixing of the promises of new life with the ghosts of past deaths was eerie. She could not enjoy the sound of happy merchants, or children playing in the streets, because she could still hear the screams of the dying. This place could never be pure of that. 

There was something else missing, too. This place had once been a den for the lions of the Rock. Cersei had ruled here, as had her children, and before that Lord Tywin had been the leal hand of Aerys ,the Mad King. It had now been a year and a half since Lord Jaime had come to the city, and, whilst Tyrion was a Lannister by name, she knew that he hated the name, for it reminded him of the hate of his sister and father. Family was important to the little Hand, and his own had spurned him, time after time. 

In truth, it was Jaime that she missed. She missed his taunting smile, his hurtful words, his teasing eyes. She missed his wit and his wisdom, but also his stubborn resistance to sense. He was a father now, his son, little Kevan, born a few months past. She had tried to feel glad for him, for she knew he had wanted a son, to make amends for his past failures, though all she had felt was an emptiness inside her gut. Word in the city now was that Lady Lyara was pregnant once again, and would birth her husband more children within the year. It was hard not to hate her for that. She would have liked to mother Jaime’s children, though she had chosen her duty over such an honour. 

Just then, her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of heavy feet upon the creaking ladder that led to the top of the tower, the ladder only accessible through the Lord Commander’s quarters. She turned, to find the simple face of Podrick Payne poking up through the hatch on the rough stone floor. 

“Your presence has been called for in the small council chambers, milady.” 

Even after all these years he still referred to her as such, no matter how many times she told him to do otherwise. They were both knights of the Kingsguard now. He was her brother, and she his sister. There was no need for such formality between them. 

“It is Brienne, Pod, and I did not know of such a meeting.” 

Podrick hauled himself through the hatch, the muscles along his arms rippling as he did. He wore the white cloak, but no armour. Just a short-sleeved shirt, with dark brown breeches that hugged tight to his calves and thighs. He strode towards her, resting his arms on the parapet, and looking out over the city. 

“Do you think of him?” 

She sighed deeply. It was hard to hide much of anything from Podrick, as they had known each other for so many years. He was a man grown now, though it was still hard for her not to picture the boy that she had journeyed with all those years ago. 

“I never stop thinking of him, Pod. They say that as the years pass lost loves are tempered. For me, the fire seems to stay strong. All that changes are the regrets, which pile up beyond comprehension. What would life have been like had I followed him to the Rock? I will never know.” 

Silence gripped the two of them for a few moments, and Brienne worried that she had laid too much of her anxiety at his door. Did he think her a freak for feeling such things, some lovelorn woman? 

“Ser Perwyn holds a paramour within the city. Ser Ystys loved a girl back in Lannisport, but he left her to go to war. When he returned, he found her wed to another, and yet now he is a knight of the Kingsguard. Not unlike you, Brienne, though Ser Ystys’ woman does not love him anymore, whilst Lord Jaime does still love you. We all have our hardships in this life, and finding the joy that we hold is not always easy, though it is always rewarding.” 

She felt tears come to her eyes as he spoke, her cheeks flushing red as she spoke of Jaime. His eyes turned to her, plain and simple, yet surprisingly perceptive. She could not think of him as a boy now, for he was a man grown, and yet he was still the same kind-hearted child that she had taken along the Kingsroad. 

“How did you become so wise, Podrick Payne?” 

He looked out to the city for a few moments, before turning his head to her, a broad smile plastered across his face. 

“I had some very good teachers.” 

She bowed her head and blinked away the tears, not wanting her eyes to get bloodshot out of fear of seeming weak. It was hard to be a woman in this city, even if she did hold the title of knight. Men still looked for the chance to put her down, to view her as a weak, simple-minded female, and she would not allow it. There were few men in this city that she could not lay on their arse if they matched swords. She had to remind them of such a thing constantly. 

She had chosen her Kingsguard to represent such a mantra. Ser Perwyn had been a leal friend to Robb Stark during the War of the Five Kings, and, after his father’s great betrayal, had spent years rotting in the dungeons of the Twins, which had spared him from the bloodbath that had consumed his family. Ser Ystys had been a sellsword of lowbirth, serving Beric Dondarrion within the Brotherhood Without Banners. He had fought well at Winterfell. Ser Ian Whyte had been the master-at-arms of Ironoaks, where he had served Lady Anya Waynwood. He was a brutish man, but kind underneath his rough features. Hyle Hunt was no great knight, but he had learned from Randyll Tarly, the best tactician that Westeros had seen for near a century. Lastly, there was Ser Garin of the Greenblood, a Dornish knight of lowbirth, but with high friends. 

“I had best attend the king’s council then. Have Ser Perwyn head to his chambers, and Ser Garin will guard the bridge to the Holdfast.” 

She left then, descending through the White Sword Tower, and out into one of the Red Keep’s three courtyards. Squires were playing at swords, under the watchful eye of Rickard Liddle, Bran’s master-at-arms. He gave Brienne a curt yet friendly nod as he passed her, and she responded in kind. 

She marched across the drawbridge to the remains of Maegor’s Holdfast. Little had bene left of the fort after the destruction of the city, and the smallfolk had taken to naming the place Brandon’s Keep, as King Brandon rarely left it, save for visits to the Godswood. A second entrance to the keep had been created for that purpose, so that the king had easier access to his gods. 

She knew that some of the southron lords still did not understand the king’s faith, though Lord Blackwood was always invited to pray with the king whenever he visited the city. Worship of the Old Gods had grown over the last few years, as Brandon proved it would be accepted. Members of the Houses Royce, Redfort and Hunter now all publically held their gods, as it should be. 

The small council chambers were kept on the lowest floor, so that the king still had access when he desired. The upper floors of the holdfast held the chambers of the council, as most private accomodation had been destroyed and was yet to be restored. A number of household knights, as well as Northern men sworn to the Stark king, also resided here. Brienne was glad that the White Sword Tower had survived largely unscathed, as she would dislike to reside within these halls. The ghosts that dwelled here went beyond the age of Daenerys Targaryen and Cersei Lannister. 

There was no Kingsguard knights at the door, just two men, wearing armour emblazoned with the wolfhead of the Starks. They parted for her, bowing their heads as she passed. She recognised them as Koner and Aberdolf Strongbeard, who had been brought from Winterfell to King’s Landing by Bran Stark. 

She was the last of the small council to arrive in the chambers, taking her place to the right of Ser Davos, the Master of Ships, and opposite Gyles Rosby, the Master of Laws. Gyles had been a loyalist to Cersei, but had swapped his banners to King Bran quickly enough. His position on the small council guaranteed the continued support of the lords of the Crownlands. Tyrion had guaranteed Gyles’ loyalty, and so Bran had accepted him on the council. 

Next to Gyles was sat the Grand Maester, Samwell, who had Lord Bronn of Highgarden on his right. Sat beside Ser Davos was Marq Piper, the young Lord of Pinkmaiden. Marq was a handsome youth, with flowing blond hair, and a dashing smile that had made many a serving girl swoon in his time. Lord Edmure Tully had nominated him as Master of Whispers, and Bran had heeded his uncle’s advice. At the head of the table sat Tyrion Lannister, on a simple, wooden chair. There was no finery in these chambers. They served a broken realm in a broken city. Simple comforts for them at the expense of investing in the people of this kingdom would not be good enough. 

“Ah, Ser Brienne, I am glad that you could join us. I am sure that you have all heard that the king has summoned us for council, though I know not why.” 

Tyrion spoke to them all, with some of the gathered men nodding their heads in silence as the dwarf Hand spoke. He poured himself a goblet of Dornish red, swilling it in his hand as he looked across the table. 

“I myself have some updates. Lady Asha has sent word that the Iron Fleet is almost back to full numbers. Lord Davos, we should send some coin to Lords Manderly, Grafton and Rykker, and suggest that they use it to construct fifty new ships each, so as to better patrol the Narrow Sea. On top of this, Lord Jason Mallister reports that the bandit Aegon Bloodborn has been captured and put to death just to the west of the Twins. Lord Bronn, we should see that Jason is amply rewarded.” 

Gyles hit the table in excitement at the news, whilst Bronn bowed his head in acquiescence. They were used to the Hand dictating the proceedings. He had more experience in the politics of the realm than the rest of them combined. There were those in the Kingdom who blamed him for the madness of Daenerys Targaryen, and the destruction that it caused, but it was through his vision that their merchants flourished, and that their cities were rebuilt. 

As the celebratory clamour died down, the main doors to the chambers opened. Bran Stark was wheeled in, Ser Perwyn at his back. The Frey knight was not strongly built, and he had a weak chin, and the shadow facial hair, but his skill with a sword was adequate, and he moved nimbly in battle. She knew that strength only got you so far on the battlefield, and many warriors relied more on speed and skill. 

Bran was older than he had been when he was crowned king, though it did not show. He had the same facial structure, and still lacked the facial hair born by most Northern men. His eyes were deep pools of knowledge, and the echo of a knowing smile played upon his lips. He was placed at the head of the table, opposite Tyrion, and directly to Brienne’s right. He did not speak for a few moments, instead surveying the gathered noblemen and councillors. 

“My council, it is under your guidance that our kingdom flourishes,” 

He started with no introductions, as was his want. Pleasantries were nothing to the king. He saw them as a waste of time when amongst known company. 

“In two months time it shall be my twenty-fourth name day. Such a date is not often celebrated fully, though I desire for a grand tourney to be held. Knights from across the kingdoms will be summoned to fight. We shall hold a traditional Northern melee, also, as well as jousting and archery. I trust that Lords Tyrion and Bronn will be able to oversee such organisation?” 

Bronn leaned forwards, his arms rested crossed on the table. 

“If there is one thing I know how to do, it’s organise a piss-up, your grace. Besides, I will find the coin, and win it back from all the highborn fuckers when I beat them in the lists.” 

All Bronn’s empty bravado proved was that you could take the man out of Flea Bottom, but not Flea Bottom out of the man. 

“Lord Gyles, I have arranged an envoy to accompany you, for I wish for you to ride to every castle and town in the Crownlands, from Stonedance to Dyre Den, spreading news of such an event, and finding the finest knights, for a prize will be offered to the Lord Paramount who patrons the eventual champion.” 

Gyles silently nodded his head. Such an errand was a hard one, and would take many moons to complete, though Bran knew that the Crownlords would react better to hosting one of their own. 

“And Ser Brienne will, in the absence of a commander of the City Watch, oversee the security of the event. That is all. You may leave me.” 

The sudden ending of the meeting was not unusual. Bran was hardly a people’s person at the best of times. He rarely held court, and when he did, he often drifted off into his own world. It was Lord Tyrion that oversaw the realm’s day-to-day running. Bran could warn the Hand of potential threats, could guide and advice, but he was little more than a boy, and playing at politics was not his place. 

As the rest of the small council rose to leave, Bran’s hand shot out, and grabbed Brienne gently on the wrist. His hands were small and pale matched to hers, the skin soft and untroubled, whereas years at the sword had made her own calloused and rough. He looked up at her with his large eyes, his face set in a painting of neutrality. There was something haunting about him. It was as if he looked at you with the exact knowledge of how you would die. It sent shivers across her skin. 

“Would you stay with me, Ser Brienne? We have things that must be talked upon.” 

The rest of the council filtered out, Ser Davos shooting her an apologetic look of worry. It was unusual enough for Bran to wish to talk. Maybe he knew something about her, or about Jaime. She sat herself down, the king relinquishing his grip on her wrist. His arms fell by his sides, limply. He did not speak at first, which heightened her sense of miscomfort. 

When he did speak his voice was fragile and young. He had never grown into a man proper, and his voice lacked depth. It wasn’t as if he had the high pitch tone of a child, but there was something soft, gentle and quavering about the way he spoke. He sounded broken. 

“I am holding such an event for my twenty-fourth name day, as I have seen that I shall not reach my twenty-fifth.” 

He spoke it in such a matter-of-fact way that Brienne instantly believed him, for she could tell that he was not jesting with her. Something about the way he sat had changed. It was like he had sunk into his chair, and the corner of his eyes had drooped slightly. She had grown to know such subtle signs well, and she could tell that Bran was saddened by his impending mortality. She had always thought him the kind to accept it. After all, few were the men who knew the date of their death. 

“I shall catch an illness. I will fall to sleep in the Godswood, and I shall never wake. It is not so bad, I suppose. My soul will be free to merge with the trees, though I do wish for a Weirwood...” 

He seemed to drift off for a few moments, before suddenly turning his head towards her. There was definitely the glistening of sadness within his eyes. He didn’t want to go. 

“It is a curious thing, to know your own death. Many are the men who would want such knowledge, but few are those that would be able to truly handle it. I fear that I fall in that group. I have met the finest of men, lived through the most epic of tales that our land will ever see... I find it cruel that fate has stolen my days from me.” 

She wasn’t sure if he desired her comfort, whether he wished for her to offer him condolences and platitudes that would reaffirm his strength, and yet instead she just stayed silent. He did not look at her for words of encouragement. He simply stared ahead, lost in the middle distance. 

“I do hope that my sister comes to the celebrations. It has been some four years since I saw her last. That will be the last time I gaze upon the walls of Winterfell, in this body, at least. I do wish I had known...” 

Brienne thought she saw a tear trickle down the king’s face, though she was taken aback. For Bran to show sadness at all was strange to her, but for him to do so that visibly... 

“It was a pretty wedding. Sansa looked so beautiful in her dress. Her husband has given her sons now, twin boys, though they will never get to see their uncle. One day maybe one of them will sit upon this throne of mine. I cannot see their futures. They are obscured from my view. I would like to see Sansa again, one last time.” 

More silence. She got the feeling that Bran knew what he wished to discuss, and that he would open up further if she allowed him the time to do so. He was not one to be hurried, and she did not wish to offend the king. She was at his disposal, and if she wished to speak with him then she could. She would give her life for him if necessary, but that was not where her duties and her oaths stopped. 

“I have seen the great lords gathering here. I saw the falcon fly down from its perch, and the silver fish leap from the Blackwater. I saw the golden kraken writhing in the bay, and the stag proudly prancing on the tourney field. The sun shined down from above, warming the winter wolf that sat upon the throne.” 

He bowed his head sombrely, before turning it to her. The sorrow in his eyes was becoming more visible and distinct. It was as if every thought that he told her brought him more sadness. It wasn’t a lack of strength on his behalf. It was like he was showing empathy, as if, instead of her being there for him, he was being there for her. It was strange. She had never seen him act in such a way before. Bran was usually cold and unfeeling, though it was true he had been showing more emotion as of late. Maybe the revelation of his own death was not such new information for him, and yet he had not come to terms with it just yet. 

“I saw no lion amongst those gathered. He stays behind at the Rock, attempting to do something noble, bound by his own honour, and that of another.” 

Bran’s eyes turned to the ceiling, and he readjusted himself slightly in the chair, so that he was facing to her, both in face and in body. His hand extended and rested on the table, looking for the sturdy support that it provided. 

“He sits within his roost, the Lord of promises kept and broken, because he fears that, should he meet you again, he will not be strong enough to resist you, that he will see your oath broken.” 

She had thought Jaime had abandoned her, finding some form of love within his young wife, though she knew the secrets that the two of them shared. However, Bran had a gift for gazing into the souls of others. If it was true that Jaime had consigned himself to a life of sadness for her... Her heart broke once again at the thought of him, her noble lion, sat atop his lordly home, wondering what might have been. He was alone in his sadness, as she was, though at least she had Podrick and her brothers amongst the Kingsguard. He had nothing. 

“It is a curious thing, is it not?” 

Bran spoke to her, his voice somehow stronger, channelling the tone and pitch of her lion’s roar, though she suspected such a thought was more in her head than reality. 

“What, your grace?” 

A wry smile passed across Bran’s lips, his eyes glistening, in such a way that it made it seem that he was inwardly laughing at some private joke. 

“The things that we do for love, Ser Brienne.”


	5. The Wolf Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tourneyfields are ready, and the King awaits. The guests must gather, but it is one in particular that is awaited with bated breath, for the wolf rides from Winterfell, and with her comes winter.

The tourney grounds outside King’s Landing were a bustle of life and noise, as Brienne of Tarth strode through them. She heard the songs of silver-tongued minstrels mix with the smell of fried meats and waft over the gathering. Lordlings and hedge knights all sat together, mingling and mixing, quaffing mead or ale, and sweet-talking the whores and camp followers. Smiths had set up stalls to flog their wares, some more effectively than others. She passed the pavilions of some of the high lords, too. Lord Edmure trained at arms with his son, who was near ten years of age now. The Lord of the Riverlands looked older, and more pallid of face, his fiery red hair shorn short, and streaks of grey ran through what remained. Lord Gendry Baratheon offered her a nod as she passed him, his young new wife upon his arm. She was a sweet thing, with black hair and blue eyes. Her belly was swollen with child. He would be hoping for a son, so as to cement his control over Storm’s End. 

Other banners fluttered across the tourneyfields. She spied the butterflies of Mullendore, the weirwood of Blackwood, and the red stallion of Bracken. Darklyn, Crabb, Brune, Redfort, Royce, Yronwood, Rowan, and Massey banners all flew by them, signifying the presence of their lords and their knights, gathered to show their skills at arms and archery. With them, she saw the cockerel of Swyft, the burning tree of Marbrand, the black manticore of Lorch, and even the sun of Lefford, but no golden lion flew with them, conspicuously absent from the field of glory. Lord Jaime had allowed his vassals to come, but ridden himself. The king had told her as such, but that did little to lessen her disappointment. 

Bran had told her that Jaime’s exile within the cavernous halls of the Rock was a self-imposed penance, removing himself from her, so that neither of them could know the temptation that so plagued them. Had such a sacrifice worked? She still dreamt of him most knights, the way he had taken her at Winterfell, the promises he had spoken to her before he rode south, the time she had broken his heart in the Dragonpit... His nobility was such that, despite her destroying what they had, he still aimed to preserve her own honour. She was not worthy of one so devoted to her, even if their devotion could not be expressed by them being together. 

Lost in her thoughts, she paid no mind to the possibility of another walking out of the king’s pavilion, which was why she soon found herself laid on her arse, opposite the similarly prone knight who she had just clattered into. 

She recognised Ser Addam Marbrand well enough. He had been Jaime’s right hand during the War of the Five Kings, and had rode with him to Winterfell. He was a rangy man, though he had grown into his height in these years past. His hair was flame-red. And he wore it in a shaggy mop. He was the lord of Ashemark now. What had he been doing speaking with the king? 

He pulled himself to his feet first, before offering her his hand, though she deigned not to take it. She was the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, and needed no help pulling herself to her feet. Lord Marbrand looked slightly sheepish as she turned her gaze upon him, which was a queer expression on the face of such a large, strong man. 

“I am sorry, my lady. I did not see you coming.” 

He did not know her well, clearly, for he referred to her as a lady, where most else used the title of Ser. Still, she was not about to cause a scene over such a trivial matter. 

“Nor did I, Lord Addam. I was coming to speak with the king. I see you had such similar intentions.” 

Lord Marbrand raked his upper teeth across his lower lip, and failed to meet her eyes. She could guess one reason why he would demonstrate such behaviour. 

“I was asked to pass along the well-wishes of my Lord upon my arrival. Besides, I had news that the King would likely wish to hear. Ser Reginald Estren, one of my knights, spotted Stark banners flying over the towers of Harrenhal. The wolf was crowned, so he said. The sigil of Queen Sansa.” 

Two thoughts flooded across Brienne’s mind during his speaking. The first was a queer sense of regret and despair at Jaime’s mention. She felt that she had come to terms with never seeing her lion again, and yet she heard his name and felt like that? How could she have moved past him if that was her reaction to a simple mention? Just the thought of him sat within the Rock, a slave to his thoughts and his demons... 

Her mind was not alleviated from her pain by the mention of Sansa, though it did provide her something of a distraction. She knew that the King had missed his home, his sister, but now that may get to change. She had felt something in Bran change these past few months, as if he was returning to the world, this boy that had never gotten to grow up, his life scarred by tragedy and war, seeing the world as it was for the first time in many years. In truth, she had felt something of a kindred spirit within him, for he was also separated from the people he loved in service to his duty. Mayhaps that would get to change, at least once, before he passed on. 

“Send word to the Hand, my Lord. Summon him here. We must ready for the hour of the wolf’s arrival.” 

Lord Marbrand was about to heed her instructions, when their meeting was cut through by the words spoken from within. 

“There is no need, Ser Brienne. I will not be sitting here and waiting for my sister’s arrival.” 

The curtains of the pavilion entrance parted then, as the King was wheeled through them. He was dressed in leather, dyed grey and black, the colours of his house, of his home. Behind him was Ser Perwyn, though he did not speak. 

“I will be riding up the Kingsroad to meet her. There are some gathered here who do not yet trust the wolf north of the Neck, nor the one in the south, I feel. It would be wise for us to meet once again away from their prying eyes. You shall ride with me. I already sent Ser Garin to fetch my horse.” 

The fierce fire within Bran’s eyes was something she was unused to. Usually, his eyes were soft and gentle, haunted by the knowledge that he had been gifted, and yet now they radiated a defiance of whatever he expected her to say next. It was true that riding up the Kingsroad with just one knight was an unwise action for the King to take, and yet she did not desire to steal away his moment. What if it was Jaime riding for her? Would she be content to remain here and wait for his arrival? She did not think so. 

“I will ride with you, your grace.” 

He bowed his head to her, a thankful acknowledgment of her acquiescence. 

“It appears that you have committed just in time. I spy Ser Garin returning with Winter.” 

She turned, and did indeed see the Dornish knight approaching them. The horse that he led was a pure-white filly, with dark rings around her eyes. The saddle that she bore had been specially designed by the Hand of the King, so that the King may ride to feast with some of his more powerful vassals. The King had three such horses, yet Winter was his favourite. It was the kind of a name that a boy gave a horse, Brienne had always thought, which maybe spoke about the mentality of her owner. 

Ser Garin’s squire, a Dornish orphan boy named Drey, came behind him, tugging a chestnut mare behind him. The boy was short and slight, and the creature gave him some problems. Instead of waiting, Brienne walked to the child, taking the reins and mounting her, thanking the squire for his help, as meagre as it had been. It was Perwyn and Garin who helped the King into his own saddle. Something about being astride a horse brought a broad smile onto his face, and Bran quickly pulled at the reins, urging the beast onwards. They were met with some applause as they rode through the camp, mostly by hedge knights keen to endear themselves to the king, though she did spy the Stag Lord beating his meaty fist into his open palm, a vast smile across his own face. 

The Kingsroad was empty of other travellers, most having already arrived for the tourneys, which commenced in a few days' time. Only Lord Arryn and the Prince of Dorne had yet to arrive save for Queen Sansa, and they were expected within the next few days, with some of their vassal lords having arrived before them. 

They were not riding for long when they came upon the shores of the God’s Eye, a few hours at most, and Brienne decided that they should stop, so that the horses could water in the cool currents of the lake. She lay the king down against a tree and, whilst the horses lapped up their refreshments, she gazed out over the waters, towards where the peaks and towers of Harrenhal could just be made out. 

That place was a ghoulish monstrosity of a structure. She did not believe in the stories of ghosts and curses so much, but still... She remembered the way that Roose Bolton and his men had gazed upon her, the way they had fed her to a bear for sport... And yet she also remembered the way that her lion had come roaring to save her, taking her from that place, back to his home. She remembered the way he had opened to her, naked in the bathhouse, making himself vulnerable both physically and emotionally. It was hard to separate the good from the bad when it came to Harrenhal, in her mind at least. Had the horrors that she had seen there been offset by the good it had done her? Was that selfish? 

“We should ride again, Ser Brienne. I would dislike for my sister to find me like this.” 

Broken from her thought-filled stupour, Brienne inclined her head to the king, aiding him back into his saddle, before swinging herself up onto hers. The way the king rode was delicate and refined, it had to be. His horse was trained to react to a touch of the reins, or a word in the ear, instead of the feel of the rider’s legs against her flank. It was an impressive feat. 

The God’s Eye was wide and wonderous as lakes go, the sun shimmering off its choppy surface, as small waves crested and fell against the shore. It was the largest of its kind in Westeros, save only for Long Lake in the North. Fisherman risked their boats and their nets on its surface, bringing in catches for the lords and knights who owned land around its shores. Such land was often profitable and well sought after, a boon granted either by the King of the Lord of Riverrun. The Kingsroad ran around its eastern edge, sticking to the shoreline, though sometimes banks of large sentinels and soldier pines blocked their view of the water. It was as they passed by one such thicket that they heard the sound of other riders. 

Bran quickened his filly’s pace, urging it on with a flick of his reins, and so Brienne encouraged her own steed to follow. Around the corner they turned, and were confronted by a small party of riders, no more than twenty, and, at their head, was sat the king’s sister, Sansa Stark. 

The Queen of Winterfell was no longer the sweet, demure girl that Brienne had known. She dressed in a shirt of chainmail, covered by leather padding, and riding breeches instead of a dress. Her hair was still the fiery-red of her Tully mother, and she wore it short, falling no further than her shoulders at the back. Her eyes were somehow harder than they had been before, yet they softened slightly as they gazed upon her brother, her lips curling into something of a smile. 

“Brother mine, I did not expect you to ride out and greet me alone. You travel so far from your city, and with only one woman at your defence.” 

As the two exchanged vague pleasantries, Brienne took the chance to observe Sansa’s companions. Several of the riders flew banners above them, fluttering in the breeze that ran off the God’s Eye. She did not see the chained giant of Umber, nor the silver sunburst of Karstark or the black bear of Mormont, for those houses had not survived the long night at Winterfell. Instead, she saw the merman of Manderly, the crossed battleaxes of Dustin, the lizard-lion of Reed, and the mailed fist of Glover. 

Her eyes then fell on a couple of the rider themselves. The first was a man of Sansa’s age, a hard, Northern face, with short, black hair, and thick lips. He was not unattractive, but he was not a handsome southron lordling, either. The second was a woman, again of a similar age to Sansa, with long, brown hair, which fell in ringlets and curls. Across her back she wore a three-pronged spear, and her eyes were hard and cold, narrowed into slits when they fell upon the King. She felt a cold aura off that woman, though she sensed there was no vicious malice towards Bran. Still, it was clear that something had occurred between them. 

Bran rode along their column as they rode back to the tourneyfields, engaging in conversation with many of Sansa’s party, though Brienne noted that he avoided the woman of the curled hair. He spent some time speaking with the other man Brienne had noted, and the two seemed to share some sort of bond. 

“That man is my husband, Ser Brienne. It gladdens me to see that my brother is so fond of him.” 

Brienne looked to her left, and found that Sansa had pulled her chestnut-brown mare alongside her. She rode it well, her hands gently touching the reins, her eyes fixed ahead, on some unseeable point in the distance. 

“I married him out of duty, at first. I had hoped never to wed again, not after Joffrey and Ramsay, but I am glad that I did. Gawen is not like those men. He has given me sons, and he has given me love and comfort.” 

A few moments of silence passed between them, but Brienne kept her eyes focused on the land ahead of them. It had been some time since she had spoken with the Queen of Winterfell, not since the day that Sansa had returned north. 

“I was surprised to learn that you were with child, my lady. I thought that...” 

“You thought that after Joffrey and Ramsay I would have seen the folly in loving men? It is true enough that I did not desire children. I fretted for their safety. What if I birthed a daughter who would wed a man such as Ramsay, or a son who became such a man? What kind of woman brings babes into a world with as much evil as this one?” 

Emotion tinged her voice, though she showed no tears. She had learned to be strong, that much was clear, both as a child in King’s Landing and in the years since. The North had hardened her, given her metal in addition to the beauty she had born before. 

“I have met many monsters in my journey, but also those men with good inside them. Podrick and Theon. Sandor...” 

There was the emotion again, as she spoke the last two names. She had loved the Greyjoy boy as a brother, and the Hound... Well, Brienne wasn’t exactly sure what their relationship had been, but it was clear that his death wrought her heart with sadness. 

“There is evil in all men. Some just hide it better than others, and some have less to begin with. I saw the icy eyes of Roose Bolton, the torturous smirk of Joffrey Baratheon, heard the mocking laugh of Red Ronnett Connington...” 

Brienne’s eyes focused again, trying to dispel the images of all the men who had looked down on her for her breasts and cunt. She had surpassed what they expected of her. She was a knight, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, and she must not concern herself with the opinions of others. 

“And what of Ser Jaime?” 

The words cut through her like a hot knife through cheese. She had oft thought on where Jaime fell in her expectations of men, though she had not expected to be confronted on the topic so brazenly. Sansa still hadn’t turned her eyes upon Brienne, though Brienne did look at the Queen, shock evident on her face. 

“It is true that I care little for the man. He wounded my father in the streets of the capital, and served his bitch sister loyally in her wars against my family, but I respect the thoughts of Lord Tyrion, and I respect the thoughts of you, too. You love him, so something about him must inspire love, even if I cannot see it.” 

Her words were a frank assessment of Jaime, and, in truth, Brienne knew that he would never truly be loved through the kingdoms. There were many who sung about his feats at Winterfell, but there would always still be those who called him Kingslayer. She could not defend him for his actions, but she knew that he was a decent man, and such were hard to come by. 

“I do not expect all others to see him as I do. I have never been some high lady, nor have I been a queen. I bear the title Lord Commander as an honour, but such things are not for me to desire. When I travelled these roads, searching for you in his name, I saw the effects that men can have when they play their game of thrones. I see that Jaime wishes to change that now, that he thinks of others. Even now, he sits within Casterly Rock, shielding me from him, for fear of me losing my honour.” 

Her words were met with silence, causing Brienne to fear that she had insulted the wolf queen, yet when Brienne looked upon her, she saw thought in Sansa’s twinkling eyes. They were not tears, but a sign of connected empathy. She did not judge Brienne for holding such feelings, even if they should be forbidden from her, but the opposite. 

“I can understand what it is like to protect something you love. When Harmond and Jothor were born, I... I would move the North for them, if such action was needed.” 

A sigh escaped the Queen in the North’s lips, a sign that she thought of some sadness. 

“Theon Greyjoy once told me that the Ironborn hold the Old Way, that they take what they desire without thought. I thought it barbaric at first, but now I see some simple pleasure in it. We should not hide our intentions and wants behind a mask of honour and duty. If you want your Lannister then you should have him.” 

Brienne herself felt touched by the Queen’s words, though not in such a way as maybe Sansa intended. She had to wipe away a gathering of tears with the inside of her sleeve, her eyes turned away from the others and down to the ground. 

“I am sorry, my Lady. It is just when you speak of children...” 

“It saddens you that you shall not have his?” 

Sansa finally turned her eyes to Brienne. They were not as hard as Brienne had first thought. They still had the softness of her mother’s, a twinkling blue, placid and serene, akin to the colour of the God’s Eye on a calm day, bathed in sun. 

“It saddens me because I have been with his child. I felt it inside me, not long after he rode from Winterfell, and I told myself that he would return to a son, but-” 

She fought back sobs that threatened to engulf her, and make her seem weak. She had come to terms with this years ago, or so she had thought. It had pushed her towards her duty on the Kingsguard, knowing that she could not give him a child. 

“The long ride south killed it. I felt our son bleed out of me, never to know life. Never to be born. I did not tell Jaime, for I knew it would hurt him. I only told Podrick, until now.” 

There was little reaction from her talking companion, though Brienne doubted that it was out of callousness. It was news that few would react to straight away, and those that wanted to show care would take time to think on what they spoke next. The moments dragged into seconds, and then minutes passed before Sansa next opened her mouth to speak. 

“To lose a child must be heartbreaking. It is no reason to condemn yourself to a life of sadness, nor a life without love. If you love Jaime Lannister then take him. Do not hide behind my brother’s name, or your snow-white shield.” 

Her words seemed blunt, though Brienne knew that it was the North speaking through her. They were a hard people, and dispensed hard lessons in turn. She had learned that well enough. 

“If only you had been there then, before he did this for me.” 

Sansa allowed her shoulders to shrug slightly, her eyes fixed back upon the distance. Brienne was awed as to how much the crown of winter had changed her. She was no longer the little bird that she had heard about from Jaime, nor the tortured prisoner that she had saved in the Wolfswood. She was her own woman, guided by strength and heart. 

“There are few things that can keep a woman warm during the cold snows and biting winds, Ser Brienne. A strong fire, is one, but a good man is another. Not just his touch, nor his lovemaking, but his kindness and his companionship. Gawen is such to me. If Lord Jaime is it to you then you should take him.” 

A few moments passed with no more words spoken, but then Sansa turned her head again, her eyes less hard, less kind, more forlorn, a drooping sadness enveloping her deep, blue eyes. 

“We must take love when we can find it. That is why I rode south, to see my brother one last time. Take your man, Ser Brienne, for winter is coming, and you do not want to be alone when it does.”


	6. The Sickness of the Rock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the rest of the realm gathers for tourneys in King's Landing, the lion lord stalks the halls of the Rock, questions of loss and love upon his mind, though darker dangers are closer at hand.

The sweet smell of incense wafted throughout the halls, chambers, and corridors of Casterly Rock, but with it came the metaphorical stench of death. It was ironic, Jaime Lannister thought, that such a smell would be so synonymous with life’s end, for it was pleasant to the nose, and lacked any foreboding aroma. Despite this, the mere whiff of such a fragrance came with the knowledge that death was here, for it was the scent used by Maesters when they were attempting to cover the malodor of disease, pestilence, and the eventual visit of the Stranger. 

Such was true for the mighty rock fortress of House Lannister now, as it was gripped in the throes of epidemic, with maesters hurrying to and fro to try and save lives, though mostly failing. A few of their number had already been gripped by this illness and succumbed to passing on into whatever came next for the learned. He had summoned for maesters from all of his vassals, though other castles were held in contamination, also. Lord Crakehall had lost his three, strong sons to the plague, whilst three generations of Lyddens had been wiped out in nigh on two days, leaving the family on the brink of extinction. 

He could ask no more of his vassals, so instead he had sent word to the Citadel in Oldtown, seat of the conclave of maesters, though he had received a rather terse response from one Archmaester Ebrose, who claimed that Casterly Rock already had several capable maesters in service, and that they would have to do. The fact of the matter was that they weren’t. He valued them, but what little they could do to contain the beastly plague had failed. 

He had first dispatched his son north, to Lord Quenten Banefort, but the old lord had not seen a moon’s turn before he went to sleep and never awoke, and so Kevan had gone to Ashemark, where Lord Addam’s young wife nursed him, to spare him from the infection. Ashemark was protected from much travel due to the hills either side of it, and Lady Melara had agreed to accept no new visitors or guests whilst Kevan was her guest. Jaime hoped that would keep his son safe from harm, though he could not be certain. 

Most other great lords of the realm had travelled to King’s Landing for the Stark boys grand tourney, though Jaime had long since decided that he would not attend. The raven was sent to the Rock as a mere courtesy, he was sure, as he doubted that Bran the Broken would have much cause to celebrate with the man that broke him. Besides, he had need to think of Brienne, and how best he could protect her. He could best do that by being away from her, separated by these kingdoms. It was no easy feat, but it must be done. 

He supposed that enduring this illness must be more a pain than being separated from her, but if so then he could not imagine it. He felt a part of himself had disappeared the last day he had left King’s Landing, the words they had shared, and not shared. He heard that wandering minstrels sung in the Lannisport inns and brothels about the lion lord and his white knight, a forbidden love to rival even that of Jonquil and her Florian. Those were tales, however, and this was life. Such feelings did not feel so romantic when they were being endured relentlessly. 

There was a constant tug at his heartstrings, a persistent reminder of where his heart lay, away from this cold tomb of a castle, yet enacting on such feelings was a folly that he could not allow himself. He had his duty as she had hers, and he could not place his own satisfaction over her honour. 

He had known good men and bad men in the past. Ned Stark had been a good man, though not all his deeds had been clad in honour. Tales were told that the honourable Lord Stark had besmirched the honour of a highborn girl during the Tourney at Harrenhal. He had not been able to pull himself away from that lust, that desire, as Jaime had been unable to do with Cersei, his sister. He had grown as a man since then. Brienne had seen to that well enough. 

Even his own lord father, who had spoken so often and at such length about the rampant dishonour that Jaime’s brother brought upon their family name with his whoremongering, had been unable to resist the touch and pleasures of a woman, for he had bedded a whore on the night of his death. The realm had seen Lord Tywin as a strong man, unyielding in the face of adversity, but mayhaps the loneliness of his existence had proven one trial too far. Was the onus on Jaime to overcome such a barrier? 

He wandered the halls of his keep, a mighty structure, impenetrable, save for the sewer systems. The Rock stood as testament to the strength and wealth of the Lannisters, the lions of the West. Once it had been the seat of kings, though not for three centuries now. Enemies had broken against it relentlessly since its founding, namely the men of the Iron Islands, but also rebellious lords and vagabonds. Lord Reyne had hoped to take it for his seat, though Lord Tywin had ended that notion. No, this was the home of the golden lion, though perhaps not much longer, should this disease continue to hang over the court. 

He waited outside the doors to Lyara’s chambers, stealing himself for what came next. Gently, he ran his hand down the ornate woodwork, his fingers stroking where the embellished chevrons hung over a rampant lion, its paws oustretched, dancing on the field of brown, but then they dropped away, his arms back to his sides. 

These had been his mother’s chambers once, separate from his father’s, so that she had some place of privacy, though they had shared a bed most nights. It had been in this room that Jaime and his sister had been birthed, and his brother, too. It had been in this room that his mother had been stolen from him, taken by the Stranger in a trade for the life of Tyrion. He remembered that, on occasion, his mother would sit him and Cersei upon her bed and tell them stories. They had heard about Symeon Star-Eyes, who had fought so relentlessly, despite being blinded since birth, and of Florian and Jonquil, that was true. 

His mother had promised to share with him a story of monsters that did not sleep, a relentless enemy that defied even death, though she had been taken before she could. He did not need her stories now, for he had seen such monstrosities break against the walls of Winterfell as if they were the ocean against a cliff. Still, he would rather face them again than what awaited him upon the other side of this door. 

It was not he who pushed the wooden barrier open, in fact, but Maester Creylen, who was leaving. He wore his grey robes, which looked baggy upon his slender frame. He was a pallid man, just shy of his fortieth name-day, with long, framed black hair, and a pinched nose. He spoke well, and his accent indicated a highborn birth, though Jaime knew not where he came from, for a maester was supposed to abandon their name upon their ascension to the order. His appearance gave him the look of a sickly man, even though he was strong of health. 

“I did not expect you to be stood there, my lord. You have my apologies.” 

There was nothing simpering about the way he spoke, though he was gentle-natured and softly-spoken. Today he talked with a crisp, matter-of-fact tone that Jaime found slightly refreshing. 

“I have no need of your apologies, maester. It was I stood still in a doorway, not you. Tell me of my wife.” 

A grave look passed upon Creylen’s face, and he quickly looked either side of them, to make sure nobody was eavesdropping on the lord of the castle. 

“She fares poorly, my lord. I fear that she never truly recovered from birthing your son, and this sickness has come at an ill time. I would be surprised if she sees the end of day.” 

He had been fearing such news. 

Lyara had fallen ill a few days past, though Jaime hoped it had been from the emotional weight of missing their son. That had quickly been proved untrue, when she fainted on her way up the stairs from breaking her fast. Though she had merely bruised herself, she struggled to awaken. He had sent Creylen to her bedside, because he was young and healthy, unlikely to fall ill from whatever disease held Lyara close. 

“I can ease her pains with milk of the poppy, but it will not save her. It is beyond the capabilities of even the archmaesters of the conclave, I would wager.” 

His words did not comfort Jaime, who rested his hand against the stone wall, the coolness of the rock seeping into his flesh, the roughness of the jags marking his skin. Casterly Rock was ancient, and though some of the tunnels and corridors were refined, many of the older corridors still cut directly into the stone. The corridors and channels moved through the fortress like veins, providing the lifeblood to the monument of House Lannister’s lasting legacy and successes. 

“I will see her then. Before she passes on.” 

“My lord, I am not sure that is wise. She-” 

Jaime pushed past the maesterm, shouldering him out of the doorway, his hand now rested on the wooden frame. 

“I will see her, Creylen. Ready a raven to fly to Ashemark with the news. I will ride there on the morrow to bring my son the news, but Lady Marbrand must prepare him for it. Go.” 

The grey maester hurried away then, sweat forming on his brow at the intensity of his lord’s words. Jaime watched him scurry off, into the tunnels of the Rock, and to his chambers, which lay upon the opposite side, looking out over the shimmering waters of the Sunset Sea. 

He steeled himself for a few moments, before heading inside. 

The room was free from the cloying aroma of insence and death, and a breeze ran through it, the shutters thrown open to allow the coolness to run through. The fingers of wind ran along the tapestries of Lannister history that adorned the walls, playing with the tassels that hung above the floor. The bed was simple and wooden, made up with white sheets, the red and gold blanket long since taken away. Opposite it stood two doors, one to the privy chambers, the other to the lady’s solar, which, at this moment, would be full of dappled light from the setting sun. Such beauty was not what he found within this room. 

Atop the sheets lay his lady wife, dressed in a white nightgown, her ankles and lower calves bare, and her arms, too. Her hair was less lustrous now, its sheen of gold lost, and her usually pale complexion had worsened, making her seem as white as a ghost, almost the same colour as the cloak Jaime had worn for so many years. Everything about her face seemed to have lessened, not in an unkind way, but in a way where beauty was oft robbed by the Stranger straight before death. 

“You have come at last, then.” 

Her words were mumbled gently, a weak, forced smile passing over her lips, before being replaced with a light cough. 

“I thought you would find the bravery to come at some point, though I had thought it would be later.” 

Every few words seemed like a strain to her, but the smile was back, less forced now. Mayhaps the talking would do her some good. Maesters were ill company at the best of times, let alone when they were working to heal you. Jaime could spy the telltale marks of a leech bite upon her legs, and so he knew the way in which Creylen had tried treating her. 

“I have fought enemies so powerful that it is hard to imagine, some gallant men, others unkillable horrors. Would that I could fight what takes you with a sword.” 

She mused over his words for a few moments, before responding. 

“We must all one day find a fight that we cannot win, I think. This is such a day, both for me and for you.” 

Silence pervaded between them for a few moments, before Jaime pulled a stiff, wooden chair up to her bedside, seating himself next to her. He did not reach out for her, but just sat, and watched. Her eyes were closed, a smile of bliss upon her face. Still, he had to break it. 

“You speak bravely at the last, Lyara. I have known few men accept death so gracefully, and even fewer who meant it.” 

Again, his words were met with her silence, as she mulled them over, her face a picture of peace, though he doubted that she felt much of it. The milk of the poppy would do some of the work, but not all. She would not be spared all the suffering that came with this illness. 

“I have lived a good life. I have loved a good woman, and wed a man who has protected me from much hardship and judgement. I have birthed a son of my bloodline, though he will not remember me...” 

Such words were tinged with sadness, though she continued still, her eyes now open, though she did not turn them towards him. They were focused on the ceiling, the water within the corner of them shimmering slightly, as if she were fighting back tears. 

“I am lucky for the life I have led, though I wish it had been longer. The Stranger is coming for me now, and so be it. I only wish I had been given more time with our Kevan...” 

A heavy sigh escaped her lips, and, after a few moments more, her eyes did turn upon him, a faint sadness and longing lay behind the placid surface, her brow furrowed ever so slightly. 

“He will grow up knowing your name. I shall see to that. You are his mother, now and for always.” 

His words were said in reassurance, though she was quick to bite back, a playful look quickly replacing the sadness, though he suspected that, for a few seconds, he had seen past the peaceful veneer she was attempting to show him. 

“Though you still do wish it was otherwise, husband dearest. I am no Brienne, nor do I try to be, but in my death mayhaps your second chance has come.” 

It was typical of the black humour that Lyara so loved that in her own last moments she could quip about her own mortality, and it brought a sorrowful smile to his own lips, twisting them in a way he had not expected on this day. 

“It was not you who stood in the way of me and Brienne, but myself and her honour. It is my duty to protect it. I have told you this.” 

She nodded her head sagely as he spoke. He suspected that she was sarcastically mocking him, though he knew not why. Her remarks did not cut into him in the way that a comment from Cersei may have done, but he was not in the moment ready for such treatment, he thought. 

“You knights speak of honour as if it is this magical thing that is defined by one mere thing. Is giving true love not an honourable thing to do, Jaime? Where is the honour in denying such a beautiful thing?” 

Her arms moved slightly upon the sheets, and she shifted herself, so that she was sat more upright, her back pressed against the crimson walls. 

“I will tell you this because I care for you, husband, and I know not how you will cope without me. The day I first felt a twinge of attraction to my Jeyne I denied it too, for honour dictated that I must wed an old man and give him whelps. Yet when I kissed her... That was no dishonour. It was bliss and it was beauty. I knew love from that day, as you do now, yet you deny yourself it still. Why? Honour? Fear of judgement? I do not know. You tell me one thing, but I suspect it is not so simple.” 

Tears were in his own eyes now. He could feel one trickle gently down his cheek and catch in the bristly hairs of his beard. She scoffed at that, rolling her eyes, though her movement was met with a slight wince, but she attempted to play it off. She did not wish him to know the pain that she was in. Instead, she wanted him to focus upon the wisdom that she spoke. 

“I could ask you to merely promise that you will raise our son to be a good man, but I want more than that from you, husband, Jaime. You do not know how you will die, whether in a deathbed or on the battlefield. No man knows their own death, and rightly so. Do not lie there, as I do now, and regret not seizing the love you feel. Do not hide behind honour and duty as a way to mask your sadness. You are a great man, a hero to the realm, and you deserve to know love truly, not hidden away. Promise me you will think on that when you are alone.” 

“I am not leaving you, not now, not until it is done.” 

She laughed, though it brought her only pain, her eyes flashing towards him as she hid another wince. 

“You are a fool, husband, but a sweet fool. It is not you that I wish to sit at my bedside in my final moments.” 

Of course. He was a bullish, brazen fool. He had not seen that she was humouring him, that he was not the one that she wanted to see in that moment. Jeyne stood in the door to the solar, a sweet girl, slight and shy, with a pale face and large eyes. Tyrion would have been fond of her, Jaime had often thought, though she would be less fond of him, of course. 

“Then I shall leave the two of you alone. Sleep well, when it comes, Lyara.” 

She bid him a fond farewell, reminding him to care well for their boy before he left her and Jeyne alone. The tips of their fingers met ever so slightly, but her arm was weak, and so her hand dropped away, before he slipped away, making his departure, though he did not make it far before slumping down against a sheer wall, his right knee pulled up underneath his chin, a light pout upon his face. 

Was there truth in her words? When last in King’s Landing he had been sure his decision was the right one morally, though now he was less sure. She spoke as if he was some fool, avoiding love for some false duty or honour. In the tales of romance that his mother had told him the great knight or handsome prince had rarely hidden himself away from his beloved. Was he fool for doing such a thing? Florian may have been fiction, but Jaehaerys I was not, and he had taken his love, his sister, against the whims and wills of an entire kingdom, risking the wrath of all for love. 

“Even now, when the Strange hovers above you, it is your hunger and driving will that guides me. One day... One day I will see you again, Lyara, but before then... Brienne.”


	7. The Lists

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tourney in honour of Bran Stark's nameday begins, and Brienne finds solace in words exchanged with a surprise guest.

The horse moved fluidly underneath her as she trotted down the listyards, the crowd roaring their approval. The smallfolk had gathered on their left, a reeking pile of the unwashed and the uncleaned, calling out the names of the Kingsguard, as they rode past them. To their right sat the high lords and knights who had gathered. Some of them would ride in the lists today, others on the morrow. They sat with silence, some of them offering their applause to the knights in white as they passed. 

Brienne rode at their head, with the rest of them riding in pairs. Ser Ystys received rapturous applause from the commons, likely due to his own lowbirth, though no such response was given for Ser Garin, who received his adulation from the gathered Dornish. Those from the sands were still viewed with much mistrust and scepticism by the commons. Brienne suspected the loudest of Garin’s supporters was Prince Manfrey, who made his feelings well known from the royal box. 

At one end of the lists stood seven tents, as white as pure snow, the entrances to which were flanked with majestically carved wooden wolves, stood on all fours, growling, as if ready to pounce. The wooden wolves of Winterfell, the smallfolk had taken to calling them, as they had been gifts brought south by the Queen in the North, who sat in a pride of place position beside the king, not below him as with the rest of the gathered lords and ladies. 

The seven stopped before the royal box, and inclined their heads, first to King Bran, and then to his sister, Queen Sansa, as a further show of respect. The words that she had spoken to Brienne still resounded in her mind. She could not merely abandon her king, not after swearing an oath, to chase down a man. Maybe when he was dead... She tried to push the thought out of her mind. Though she knew it was coming, wishing death upon her king was no thing for a knight of the Kingsguard to be doing. 

There were many ways that a tourney could be fought. It was true that the most common was open riding in the lists, however Brandon, along with his small council, had chosen a Tourney of Champions, whereby Bran would nominate seven knights or lords as his chosen champions, and then any other anointed knight may ride forward to challenge one of their choice. The victor would take their place as one of the champions for the next list. At the end of the three days of riding, whosoever the seven champions were would decide between them upon a Queen of Love and Beauty. The reigning Queen was a young girl named Matylda, the daughter of one of the serving wenches, chosen by Bran specifically, much to the joy of the commons, and the consternation of Lord Tully. 

The king spoke next; a short speech thanking the high lords and smallfolk alike for their attendance to celebrate his name day. He spoke little, and Queen Sansa spoke less, enough time to congratulate her brother, but little else. She was not sullen, but much of her gregariousness had been worn away by the hardness of the North. Still, she received a raptutrous ovation from the gathered Northmen, joined in by men of the Vale and the Riverlands. She was, after all, half-Tully, and the cousin of Lord Arryn. 

And then they took their places before their tents, and the first group of challengers rode forward. 

Each lord had nominated who they would want as their first rider, save for Asha Greyjoy, who proudly boasted at how Ironborn rode boats, not horses. The Lords Tully and Baratheon had elected to ride first, and were joined by Lord Marbrand, of the Westerlands, Gawen Glover, of the North, Ser Hobber Redwyne, of the Reach, Ser Albar Royce, of the Vale, and Lord Gerold Dayne, of Dorne. It was a mixed group of challengers, though that was little surprise. She had known Lord Tully would ride first, for his pride demanded it. Still, Lords Addam Marbrand and Gerold Dayne were strong jousters, and would provide stern competition. 

Lord Tully tapped the shield of Ser Perwyn, whilst Gendry Baratheon opted to test his lance against Ser Ystys, which was met with much applause from the commons, as both were favourites of the smallfolk. The knights Royce and Redwyne went for Ian Whyte and Hyle Hunt, respectively, whilst Lord Gerold clashed his lance against the shield of Ser Garin, which elicited a roar from the Dornish. Gawen, Sansa’s lord husband, a kind youth, though no warrior in truth, chose Ser Podrick. That left Lord Addam as her own opponent. He nodded his head to her, a sign of respect, from the opposite of the listfield, before lowering the visor of his helm and readying his lance. 

Addam was a large man, with broad shoulders and strong arms. In his youth he had been rangy, though he had grown more into his height as the years had passed. His armour was simple, whilst hers was enamelled white, and shined in the morning sun, the heat beating down upon her, though she kept a firm grip on her weapon. She had been taught to ride in her youth at Evenfall Hall, but lessons with the lance had come much later. She was skilled enough, though she preferred fighting on foot. 

The king ordered the charge, and so she dug her heels into the horse’s flank, urging her on, towards the onrushing Lord Marbrand. She kept a firm hold on her lance, and held her shield close to her body, aiming the tip of her weapon to the centre of his shield. It struck, but slipped to the wrong side, splintering down the shaft. Fortunately enough, he did the same, his hit not being clean, and so she stayed on horseback for a second lance. 

She looked around, and saw that none of the riders had been unhorsed. That was a good sign for a good tourney. They broke two more lances before the first man was knocked; Ser Hobber being sent flying from his saddle by a well-aimed lance from Ser Hyle, who dismounted his horse and retired to his tent when the Redwyne knight surrendered his defeat. The next lance saw Lord Tully fall from his horse, and defeated on foot easily by Ser Perwyn. 

Her arm did not tire on the fifth lance, and she got a good hit against Lord Addam’s breastplate, near throwing him from his saddle, though he steeled himself well. Ser Garin was less lucky, becoming the first of the champions to fall, with Lord Gerold proving his strength at the joust, and rightfully taking his place within the tents. Gawen Glover, who had rode well enough and done himself no disservice, was knocked from his saddle, though fared better with a sword, near beating Podrick afoot. Though the Kingsguard triumphed in the end, an embrace was shared between the competitors. 

The next two matches were decided on the next lance, as Ser Ian Whyte’s brute strength bested young Ser Albar, who was cheered off heartily by his uncle, the Bronze Yohn, and Ser Ystys finally got the better of Lord Baratheon, though it was a close thing. That left just her and Addam. 

By now, her opponent’s helm was gone, so his grim face was bare to her. His lips were pursed, and his eyes pained. He was a close friend to Jaime, she thought, though he was no match for him on horseback. Jaime would have knocked her clean from her saddle on the second lance, and gloated about it afterwards, like as not. 

Still, he was no untrained squire. She urged her horse on again, and this time noticed a weakness in his stance. His shoulder hunched slightly, as if he was bearing a wound, so she aimed for that. Her lance shattered clean against the armour, though it was enough to send him flying. She jumped down from her steed, and went for her blade, but he waved her away quickly enough. 

“I cede. I cede. You ride well, Lord Commander. Jaime told me as much. I am gladdened that I got to test you.” 

His maester rushed to him then, escorting him away to his tents. She hoped that the wound would prove nothing, and that he would be safe from infection and permanent injury. Mayhaps it would become just another battlescar for him to tell his lady wife about. 

More challengers came and went. Some took their place as champions, though most did not. Ser Perwyn lost his place to Ser Benethon Scales, an older knight, but he lasted but one list before being unhorsed by Ser Andrey Dalt, of Dorne. Ser Ystys fared better, seeing off highborn challengers from across the Reach, Riverlands and Dorne. A Northern lance by the name of Daryn Hornwood took Hyle from his saddle after twelve lances broken between them, which pleased Queen Sansa, bringing a smile to her face. Brienne herself bested three fine highborn knights. First came Ser Robin Potter, then Richard Horpe, and lastly Ser Godry Farring, the Hammer of the Kingswood, who proved the most challenging. 

By the time the king called for lunch, the champions stood as four knights of the Kingsguard; herself, Podrick, Ian, and Ystys, joined by Ser Andrey Dalt, Lord Gerold Dayne and Daryn Hornwood. 

Brienne strode to the king’s pavilion, where he was entertaining some of the choice high lords. Ser Perwyn and Ser Hyle, both clearly hurt by their defeats, stood on duty outside, so she entered, for the seven champions had all been invited. 

Most of the guests were already gathered. Bran sat at the head of the table, his sister beside him. To her left sat her husband, and the king’s right was reserved for Lord Baratheon, who enthusiastically talked about the jousting, whilst Bran nodded sagely. Brienne suspected he was struggling to keep up with the Lord of Storm’s End, who was still yet to learn the decorum of courtly life. Prince Manfrey was sat inbetween his two champions, proudly clapping his hands upon their backs, boasting about the sand steeds of Dorne. Daryn Hornwood sat beside Gawen, a humble and slightly uncomfortable look upon his face, whilst opposite him was sat the young Queen of Love and Beauty, her hair washed and combed, and dressed in Dornish robes, donated by the Prince from the wardrobe of his young daughter. Lord Baratheon’s wife was kindly talking to the child, a placid smile upon her face as she taught her on how to use a knife and fork. 

Brienne seated herself beside a sullen looking woman, with long brown hair, which fell in curls down to her shoulders. She wore a tight gown of green and browns, and a curious brooch held her cloak around her shoulders. It was shaped as a trident, though she was no Manderly, for she was lean and thin, not blubbery. 

The woman did not speak at first, instead pushing around a piece of braized beef around her plate, though there was no sauce left for it to soak up. Brienne ate a little, though she did not wish to stuff herself for the joust. She noticed Ser Ystys do the same, whilst Ser Whyte virtually filled his boots. 

“The joust bores me. It is little when compared to a proper Northern melee. Does it not bore you to be out there?” 

The woman’s voice was hard and cold. It was the voice of a woman who had lived no easy life. 

“I was not trained at it. I would not watch it, but for the king I will ride.” 

The woman’s face seemed to sour at the mention of the king. 

“Be careful what you would be willing to do for him. He will not repay you as you deserve.” 

Then it clicked in her mind. The woman was Meera Reed, who had travelled north with the king, when he had been a broken boy, with her brother. She had heard Bran speak of her with sadness. Clearly time had not seen her wounds heal, and she still held bitterness towards the king. Brienne couldn’t blame her. Bran had thrown her aside then, and had done little to repair their relationship since. 

“A Kingsguard does not desire reward, save for the honour of serving our king.” 

Even as she spoke the words, she could not be sure that they were true. It wasn’t as if she resented Bran for her oaths to him, but they were why she and Jaime were now separated. Had he not asked her to repay her oath then maybe she would have had the chance to carry his child, not another woman. Could she resent him for that? 

“My brother asked for nothing, and he lays dead in the snow beyond the wall, as do Summer and Hodor. If you speak the truth then know that. The ones Bran Stark keeps close do not live long lives.” 

Reed’s cheeks had reddened, and it looked as if she was fighting back tears, though she was too strong to be seen sobbing. Brienne wondered if she would weep for her lost brother, or for her lost love, for it was clear that there had been hopes of more between her and Bran. She could understand such feelings. Every time that Jaime had left her to run back to Cersei, save for the last, she had felt the same sense of abandonment. Men did not see the way they impacted the women that loved them. 

“I have heard him talk of you, to his weirwoods. He spoke of loss and regret, at what happened to your brother, and at how he treated you. Were he to turn back the time, I think he would have you as his Queen, Lady Meera.” 

A scowl crossed the face of the crannogwoman, and her nostrils flared ever so slightly. 

“Words are wind, and Bran Stark’s words mean even less than that, especially when they come second-hand. I am no bawling wench. They will not sing love songs of me, though maybe they should, for love is far more often like this than it was for Jonquil and her fool. Though you would know that, knight.” 

Her words were spoken with a venom that was befitting a woman of the Neck, where near everything could kill a fully-grown man. Brienne’s heart was somehow softened by the hard woman, though she was unsure why. Maybe it was that she had felt similar things about Jaime, or that she could see the flickering of love still extant behind her vivid, green eyes. 

“If you were to speak with him-” 

The woman interrupted her, a soft fierceness to her voice, glistening tears forming in the corners of her eyes, though she quickly brushed them away, before anyone else could notice, for their conversation had gone unseen thus far. 

“Would that I could. When I am away from him, I still wish he was there, the Bran that I knew and loved, even now. Yet now that I can gaze upon him, all I can see is Jojen dying in the snow... The emptiness in his eyes as he sent me away, cold, uncaring, unloving... What woman would still love a man like that?” 

Her words were spoken now with a passion, that could not be denied, and she nearly wept there and then, though she did well to hold back tears, instead hardening her face, and breathing in deeply through her nostrils. 

“Mayhaps you don’t.” 

Brienne did not reach out to touch the woman, for they barely knew each other, and she was hardly a tactile person at the best of times. 

“When I first met Jaime he was crude, and cruel, and horrid, yet that was just a shell, and underneath I found kindness, and love, and a man who cares more deeply than he can ever show. Maybe that is the same with Bran. I believe the boy that you love is still there. I have seen him. That coldness... I think it was his armour, put up to protect him, to protect you, even, from the loss he knew was to come. It was a barrier to the world around him, just as Jaime had when I met him.” 

As Brienne spoke, Meera steeled herself, settling down into her chair, her back less rigid and her posture less stern, so she seemed more at ease. Her face also slackened slightly. It still held the hard lines of the North, but her cheeks seemed sallower, her lips less pursed. 

“You speak wise words, I think, for one of the south. It disappoints me that we did not meet earlier, beneath the walls of Winterfell, perhaps. Maybe if we had then I would not have been fool enough to sit festering for all these years. Though why I should take advice from one who has chosen a cloak over their own loved one, I do not know.” 

Brienne’s eyes turned back towards the king, who was still engaged in conversation with Lord Baratheon. She did not see the distant child any longer, but one who was trying to connect with the world he had avoided for so long. He knew his death was coming, and so he wanted to find that love and friendship that he had eschewed for so long. Maybe she could learn from him, as well as from Meera. She did not want to leave it too late, so that her Jaime resented her. If she abandoned her post to join him now then what would he do? Give her harbour? Take her head as an oathbreaker? Did he even love her still? 

“He is a world away from me, and yet always so close. It is not fate to blame, just myself. I fear I made the wrong choice... Between duty and love... Should I have chosen him?” 

“I cannot make your choices for you, nor can either of us change the past, but you have given me wise counsel, so I will attempt to offer you the same. My father did not tell me many stories of love, but he did tell me one, of a prince who loved a woman he could not, and a realm bled for it. You just have to hope you are not like him.” 

Love guided the course of men, or so Maesters said. Could she really allow it to guide her? She could not abandon her post, for if she did that then she would not be the woman that Jaime had loved. Maybe there was another way. She must speak with the king, and hope that, for once, fate smiled kindly upon her, for she wanted him. She wanted her Jaime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey. If it wasn't clear from that I am a Bran x Meera fan. Had to find a way to get it in there somewhere. I hope it didn't distract too much from the trials and tribulations of the Brienne and Jaime lovestory. We are coming to a head now. Probably 2-3 chapters more to go now. hopefully the pay-off is worth all the buildup!


	8. Oathkeeper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne serves her king yet still. Farewells must be spoken with some characters, as changes come to King's Landing, and to Brienne herself. Beyond that, Brienne is bound by what it means for her and for Jaime for her to remain an oath keeper.

Seven months had passed since the end of Bran Stark’s tourney, and yet still she stood at her king’s door, her white plate armour heavy and stiff, and Oathkeeper hanging at her waist. It was not the same kingdom that it had once been, not since the raven had come from Casterly Rock, a few days after the tourney’s end, snuffing out all thoughts of celebration and joy. 

It had bourn the news that Lady Lyara was no more, stolen away by some unknown fever that no maester had the capability to cure. Brienne had not known how to respond to such news, for she held mixed feelings for the Lady of the Rock. She had been happy, in a sense, for Jaime was now free of any other woman, though such thoughts had been fleeting, quickly overtaken by concern and horror that she had thought such things. For whatever else Lyara had been, she had still been a good person, and for her to celebrate her death? What sort of person did that make her? She had a son, and other loved ones, who would weep for her, and Jaime, too. Instead, Brienne wept for him, knowing that such events would have hurt him deeply, for he was a good person, and cared so much. 

Lyara was joined in the next world by the Lords Banefort, Farman, and Lydden, as well as Lord Crakehall and three of his sons, and the Knight of Cornfield soon after. It was not just the West that was struck. Soon the disease passed into the Reach, and beyond. Lord Rowan sent raven reports of a horrible plague that claimed two of his daughters, and then the lord himself a few days after. The Lords Oakheart, Stackhouse, Caswell, Merryweather, and Serry all followed him, as did Ser Hobber Redwyne, who Brienne had remembered from the tourney. Lord Gendry had fallen ill at Storm’s End, though had recovered. Such was not the case for his young wife and unborn babe, who had both been claimed by the Stranger. Maester Anselm, of Storm’s End, reported that the young lord had scarcely eaten since. 

The Riverlands had been hit worst of all. In total, the Lords Mallister, Bracken, Blackwood, Vance, Ryger, Wayn, Wode, Charlton, Grey, Grell, and Lychester had been taken, as well as lord Edmure, who had died of fever a few days after returning to Riverrun. His young son, protected at Acorn Hall, one of the few untouched castles of the region, had been risen as the new Lord. He was a boy of ten years. 

The disease had not spared King’s Landing. Two of the Kingsguard had fallen ill, though Hyle Hunt had recovered, big Ian Whyte did not, dying in his bunk, his sworn brothers watching on. He had been burned, wearing his white cloak, upon a bier in the castle courtyard. She had wept afterwards, for he had been a good man. Lords Rosby and Piper, of the small council, had also passed, as had several of the Northern lords who had remained in the city. 

The Wolf Queen had not left after the tourney, instead choosing to remain, to spend some time with her brother, and to discuss future trade and diplomacy between the two kingdoms, for after Bran was gone. Her husband, Gawen Glover, had taken half their party back north, to look after their boys, and she had planned on joining him. However, this illness had not hit the North, and they did not wish to spread it there, so Sansa had remained behind. 

“Ser Brienne, please join us.” 

The words came to her through the heavy oak of the door, breaking her from her thoughts on this terrible pestilence. She bowed her head, steadied herself with a deep breath through her nostrils, and then entered the room, closing the door behind her gently. 

The king’s solar inside was clean and well-furnished. Light filtered through the windows, as the satin curtains were pulled open, bathing the stone flagons on the floor in gentle sunlight. On the wall hung two crowns, one wrought of iron, that had been worn by Robb Stark, the king’s brother, and the other simple and stern, which had been worn by Lady Greyjoy for a time, before she bent the knee to the dragon. Sat behind a large oaken desk was the king, pale and sallow, yet smiling softly. To his right stood the Lady Meera, still in the brown and green leather of the crannogs, not smiling, yet looking less stern than she had before. Sansa stood by the window, looking out over the city, her gown of black and grey hugging her body tight. She looked harsh and severe, yet the auburn hair gave her a splash of life, and she was no less beautiful. 

“You called for me, my king. For what purpose?” 

His eyes crossed her face, the smile unwavering. Gone were the black pupils of knowingness, replaced by kinder eyes of grey, glistening with life, in which Brienne saw some irony. It was the king accepting his upcoming mortality that had seen him strive to live life well, even when a plague ravaged his kingdoms. Still, the eyes were child-like, naïve and fresh, the eyes of one ten years his junior. 

“You have been in my family’s service longer than most. I feel it fitting that it is you that is here to hear what come next for us.” 

“I am to return north on the morrow.” 

It was Sansa who spoke next, turning away from the view of the Red Keep, to address Brienne. Gone was the meek child that Brienne had seen in the company of Lord Baelish, replaced by a woman of winter, hardened by Baratheons and Boltons. 

“I will sail first for Driftmark, and then Lord Manderly has agreed to accept us at White Harbor, where I will remain for two months, to see if the disease comes with us. If the Old Gods look upon us favourably, I will then be able to ride to Winterfell, and to see my Harmond and Jothor. I have missed them.” 

A touch of emotion tinged the queen’s last words, though she hid it by averting her eyes, looking back out to the city. 

“I will have no more cause to return here after that. This city... It has known its monsters, and it has taught me lessons aplenty, and hardships moreso. Yet I feel sadness over knowing I will never step foot within these walls again. I do not know why that would be. Maybe it is weakness on my part.” 

The queen’s nostrils flared as she breathed in deeply, before turning back to Brienne. 

“I would ask you to come with me, but I know what binds you to these southern lands. Know that you are always welcome in Winterfell, Brienne, whether knight or not. I would not be here if not for you, and neither would my sons be born. They will hear stories about the Maid of Tarth, who defied a realm to save her queen.” 

The queen did something that surprised Brienne, then, stretching out her arms and enwrapping her in a tight embrace, not a moment of weakness, but one of strength. When they pulled apart, she had need to wipe away a few tears. She had served Sansa well, she thought. Maybe this was the reward. 

“Love him well, and remember the lessons life have taught you. I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth, and meat and mead at my table. I cleanse you of your vows to me, Brienne. Be free of them.” 

And so she left them, no longer a girl, or a maid, of three and ten, but a queen, still as beautiful, but wiser, and yet colder. Brienne watched her leave, free of some of her oaths, though it did not feel lighter on her back, for it was not the vows to her Sansa that held her here, that held her from him. Still, she appreciated the gesture. 

“My sister speaks well, as usual, but it was not her itinerary that I wished to discuss with you, my knight.” 

The king pushed away the papers that lay before him, his emblem placed upon them in red wax, a grey wolf sat, at peace, its howl muted. His hands shook slightly as he did, and Brienne noted a light sweat upon his brow, though the day was not hot, and the temperature of the room was cool enough. 

“My sister departs for Winterfell on the morrow, and a day after that I shall begin my own journey home. Lady Meera has assured me that she will escort me back to Winterfell, and I trust her with such a duty, though I know it will hurt her.” 

Meera placed her hand upon the king’s shoulder, the affection clear between the two. It brought a smile upon Brienne’s lips, happy to see the love that the two had rediscovered over the last few months, before the weight of what Bran was saying landed upon her. 

“It is so soon-?” 

Bran bowed his head gently, before cutting her off, politely enough, though there were nerves within his voice. 

“It is. The night after next, I shall sleep within the Godswood, and never awaken. Meera will return my remains to my home, so that I can be buried besides my father and my brothers, so that I can greet them in the worlds beyond, and apologise to them for my actions, or my inaction, as it should be.” 

A deep sigh escaped his lungs, sadness filling his eyes, and he looked down, to his legs, though she was not sure that they were what he was watching. How must it be, to be able to see the ghosts of the past, even when one was awake. She had her own, of course, but they only came to her at knight. For her, the sunlight warded them off, yet such was not true for Bran. 

“he showed me their deaths, over and over, until I was cold to them. Father and Robb that is... But Rickon... Rickon I could have saved, and yet I did nothing. I allowed him to be betrayed, to be tortured, and to be butchered. That is my sin, and I will bear it with me to my crypt, and beg his forgiveness if I can. My baby brother...” 

Sadness ran through the veins of the king’s words, and he wept openly, tears streaming down his cheeks, shed for the brother that he had lost. Brienne was not sure what to do, as she had never seen him so emotional as this. Meera offered to wipe them away, but the king raised his hand to ward her away, and instead turned his reddened eyes on Brienne. 

“I have sins aplenty. I have kept you here, at my side, for reasons that you cannot know, though maybe my selfishness robbed you of the life you would have wanted, the life with the man you love. That was not what I wished, but I see the consequences of my actions now. Listen to my words, Brienne. I have seen your lion depart from the Rock on the morrow. He intends to come here, to take you, if you will have it. He will not reach the city, however. I know not why. Your Stranger stalks the land, and his intentions are not known to me, in this case, at least.” 

Her face must have twisted into one of pain and misery, for Bran held his hands up to her, sympathy etched onto his own face. 

“There is still time for him, and for you, if you will take it. I do this as your king, Ser, and in recognition of your leal service to me, and to my family. For that reason, I offer you a choice. I you wish, I will relieve you of your white cloak, and your oaths sworn with it.” 

His words cut her deep, but slowly, for what he was suggesting did not at first seem real to her. She had thought of what it would mean to abandon her position and run to Jaime, and yet she had never committed to it, for fear of him no longer loving her if she became an oathbreaker, or even if he would take her head for her crime. Oathkeeper had hung heavy at her hip whenever she had such thoughts, a reminder of the vows she had sworn, and of the promises that she had made to both him and to her king. 

Yet now her king was giving her that chance, the chance to leave her vows behind, to find her Jaime and to love him, if he would take her. The chance to have some life with him... 

“You could return to Tarth, if you wished, to your father and brother, or venture elsewhere. Either way, you would be free, to live the life that your service has earned you, if you will take it.” 

Before she could answer, Meera Reed stepped around the desk, and laid her hand upon her shoulder. 

“I am no southern lady, with fancy words and wise advice, but what you gave me has given me some months with him. What he gives you now can give you time with the man you love. Take it.” 

She thought back to the day that she had first met Ser Jaime, in the dark of Robb Stark’s camp, her Lady Catelyn with her, and the way he had spoken about her. Could she have known back then that she would now be choosing between her dreams of glory on the Kingsguard, and her love for him, his sharp tongue and all? 

“I cannot- My duty-” 

“Your duty is served, Ser Brienne. You swore to protect me, and you have. Your service is done, though I am not ungrateful for it. You have helped me live my life, so now I wish to help you live yours.” 

His words caused her to fall to a knee at his feet, her neck bent forward, to hide her face from him, tears now upon her own cheeks. Were they sadness, for the honour she would lose, for the uncertainty she would now face, or were they happiness, for the chance to be with Jaime? 

“I accept your offer, your grace. I thank you for it.” 

“Arise, Ser Brienne. You should kneel for no man, and it should be I thanking you. I do not mean to be rude to you, but if you would leave us. I wish to spend time with my lady. Ser Podrick should be waiting for you atop the White Sword Tower. I think he will wish to talk with you.” 

She bowed her head repeatedly to the young king as she backed out of the room. 

The corridors of the Holdfast seemed to have changed as she passed through them now. Shadows were cast less long, and everything seemed to be a shade brighter. It was a curious thing, she thought, how the weight of the world could be lifted from you in just a few moments, by just a few words from the right person, and her shoulders felt free off their burden now. 

A greyness hung over the city still, despite the sun beating down from above. She strode across the courtyard, unable to keep a smile from breaking upon her face. It was uncontrollable. She pictured him waiting for her, the look of surprise upon his face as he gazed at her, the way their lips would feel when locked together, the words she would say to him after she pulled away... Her lion, her Jaime. 

The lower chambers of the White Sword Tower were empty, though she took a few moments, her hand pressed against the rough stonework, her arm locked, so that she could take it all in for a few moments, before leaving it behind, and heading up to her chambers. 

They were simple rooms, nothing like the chambers at the Rock, she imagined, but she had liked it. The simplicity was fitting, for it reminded her that her life was her duty to the king, yet no more. For the first time in years, ever since that melee for Renly, she was free of vows and oaths, save for the one that she wanted to keep more than any other. She clambered up the ladder, to the roof, eagerly awaiting the touch of the wind upon her skin. 

Podrick stood there, waiting patiently, looking out over the city, his arms crossed, rested atop the parapets. He was the very image of knighthood now, no longer the awkward boy that he had once been. He had grown out physically, and matured mentally, though he still had the gentle charm of his youth, and the slightly uncomfortable presence around others. She was proud of what he was now, though she did not tell him that. He turned to her as she rose, a smile playing upon his lips. 

“I think that might be the happiest I have seen you in some years, Lord Commander. Your smile is near as broad as your shoulders.” 

She laughed at that. It was no sultry laugh, nor was it the sing-song laughter of a highborn maiden, but it elicited more of a smile from him. 

“I have cause to smile. I am going to him, Podrick, to my Jaime.” 

“So I hear. It is a reward well-earned. I will be sad to see you go. Brienne.” 

She nearly took a step back through the open hatch, for it was rare for Podrick to call her Brienne. Most often he would move between calling her “my lady” or “Lord Commander”, or “Ser”. Now he said it with love in his eyes, not attraction, but platonic adoration. They had been through so much, to bring them here, where the wind whipped at their cloaks. He stepped forward, clapping his right hand in hers, a strong grip, which she returned. 

“It has been an honour to serve you, Brienne. As both knight and Lord Commander.” 

She realised something then, the final gift that she needed to give her former squire, who had defended her so often, who had grown so much. It was the only fitting thing. 

“The Kingsguard is yours now, Lord Commander. Guide them well. Remember your oaths, and be strong, not cruel. Live for honour, and for duty. Let this serve as your reminder-” 

She unsheathed the blade at her hip, holding it out to him in her palms, its steel glinting in the light cast down by the sun, shining upon them in this moment. 

“This was a gift from Jaime. I cannot-” 

“My Jaime gave this to me as a reminder of my duty, to show me the power of an oathkeeper. A fitting name for the sword of the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. He passed it to me, and now I pass it to another. Wield it well, in the name of your king.” 

Podrick’s hands slowly folded around the hilt, holding it in some awe for a few moments, before resting it, point-down, against the parapets, turning back to her when it was done. 

“You’re really leaving. We will be separate for the first time since leaving this city all those years ago.” 

He made to sink to his knee in front of her, no doubt to spout some talk of oaths and service, but she did not wish to hear it. 

“You are Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Save for your king, you bow to no man, Podrick Payne. Remember that.” 

A grip of the hands was not enough, as a single tear ran down the boy’s cheek, she pulled him into an embrace. Podrick clapped his hand upon her back as she pulled away. 

“You kept your vows. Do not tell me that you did next to nothing this time. Good luck, Ser Brienne of Tarth, on wherever your journey takes you next.” 

And so she left him, the little boy squire, now a knight grown, Valyrian steel in his hands, as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. She placed her white cloak upon the bed, neatly folded, swapping the white plate for simple riding-wear, running her fingers across the words of the White Book as she passed it, before leaving the White Sword Tower for the final time, heading to the stables, and, from there, to her Jaime. She was free, and now she would do as Sansa had told her. She would take him.


	9. Tricks of the Gods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freed of her vows of service, Ser Brienne Tarth travels the length of the Goldroad from King's Landing to Casterly Rock, searching for her lost lion, and the love she hopes to find with him.

The rolling hills of the Crownlands had long been left behind by Brienne of Tarth, a knight of the Seven Kingdoms, as had the pastures and woodlands of the Reach, replaced by the towering mounds and craggy cliffs of the Westerlands. The Goldroad took a straight path between them, through gorges and valleys, wide enough for travellers to comfortably journey both ways between the Rock and King’s Landing, yet she saw few other souls as she rode. She passed inns and small villages sporadically, ravaged by the illness that had swept over the Kingdoms, yet most were in good spirits to see her. A young maid even thanked her, as she and her sister were allowed to train with the sword because of her. Such words had given he cause to blush, yet she had also felt pride. Gone were the days when she was made mockery of, replaced by this respect. 

At one point, just west of Hayford, she had met a travelling septon, and had ridden him a while, and listened to one of his sermons at a small fishing village along the Blackwater Rush. He had spoken of acceptance, and forgiveness, which she understood. She had forgiven Jaime for plenty, though that had been easy. It had been harder with others. Should she have forgiven Stannis for killing Renly? Should Sansa have forgiven the bastard of Bolton for raping her? The septon had spoken to her afterwards, telling her that he had known who she was from the start, and that he had been glad to ride with her, which had caused her to blush. He had been a young man, by the name of Meribald, just beginning his journey, where hers was coming to an end. 

They had split ways there, with him taking a small, worn track north, to the southern banks of the God’s Eye, whilst she kept along the Gold Road. She was hosted for an evening by Lord Jon Footly at Tumbleton, where she heard the news of the king’s passing. She had known it to be coming, and yet it still saddened her. Bran at the end of his life had been very different to the boy she had met within the walls of Winterfell, who had hidden himself away, to save himself from hurt. 

“It is a pleasure to host one such as yourself, Lady Tarth. Songs are sung of your great deeds, and both my sons and daughters aspire to be you, for that.” 

Those were the words Lord Footly had spoken to her as she arrived, which had ilicited another of her trademark blushes. 

Maybe Bran had not been the only person to change. She remembered the words that Footly had spoken of her beneath the walls of Highgarden, not long after the outbreak of the War of the Five Kings, when he had just been a knight. He had called her hideous, ungainly, a maid for the rest of her days, and yet now he spoke such kindness of her. Should she be grateful for that? Meribald would have told her to forgive, and yet she did not find that so easy. Had it been Jaime... 

She stayed the knight at more lordly castles as she travelled, heading east, towards the Rock. First Lord Cedric Payne hosted her at the Paynefort, and she spoke well of his cousin. Then she stayed a knight with Lord Peckledon, and after his court she visited Ser Lambert Turnberry, a landed knight. 

Each lord was happy to host her in their halls, and feast her on their food. Each of them recited the same kind words, and yet she suspected them to be hollow. She had similar memories of Lord Peckledon and Ser Lambert as she had with Lord Footly, and the way they spoke suggested little had changed. Perhaps they feared the wroth of their liege lord if they shunned her? Or mayhaps it was just paranoia clutching at her mind. 

Lord Peckledon was the one who told her of Bran’s will and final announcements. He had declared his cousin, Lord Brynden Tully, a boy of eleven, as his heir apparent. They shared blood through Bran’s mother, her Lady Catelyn, who was Brynden’s aunt. The decision had been ratified by the small council, and the high lords of the Reach, Iron Islands, Stormlands, and Dorne. 

Noted in their absences were the support of Lord Robert Arryn, who also shared blood with the Starks, and Lord Jaime, who had, according to Lord Peckledon, seemingly departed the Rock a few days before the announcement had been ushered. 

On her travels she saw more than just beauty and happiness. She saw a land strucken by disease. Even as Lambert Turnberry told her about the death of his young wife, she saw starving families, with no men to earn them coin or food. She gave what she could, though it was little. 

Her next destination was Deep Den, the ancestral seat of the Lydden clan, and the fort that guarded the Goldroad as it passed through the sheer mountains. The road turned to a track soon after she departed her last stop, and wound up the side of a cliff. It never grew thin, but it instead grew skidy, with loose pebbles and gravel making it treacherous for her steed, so she dismounted and walked. 

The climb was a long one, and she stopped to sup on bread and cheese half-way through. It was worth it, however, for by the time she reached the highest point of the track, the valleys and fields of the inner Westerlands opened up before her. Here was a part of Westeros that she had never been, but she had heard much of its beauty, and it did not disappoint. 

At the foot of the mountains lay a sweeping, verdant, series of rolling hillocks, the occasional village dotted around, and streams roaming their way across the landscape. In the distance, to the far north, lay more mountains, but they were very far away. She saw fields of wheat, and pastures of cattle, with the beasts looking like naught more than specks from her height. 

At the bottom of this valley lay a series of stone forts, protected by a single, sprawling curtain wall, which looked to have been built not all at once, for different parts of it jutted off at strange angles. Down the side of the road lay manned towers, each flying the golden lion of Lannister. At the first, three Lannister men played cards around a table, and paid her little mind. At the second, two young men practiced archery under the watchful eye of a grizzled, bearded veteran, and again she passed by easily enough. 

It was at the third of these outposts that she was finally stopped. 

A man strode forth, burly and brawny, clad in boiled leather armer atop a heavy set of chainmail, the iron links clasped close together, and with a cloak of pure crimson trailing behind him. He wore a helm that hid his face from her, but she could make out the hairs of a bushy, blond beard that fell past his chin, yet was also well groomed. He had the walk of a warrior, precise and rigid, and he held his back straight, standing well over six feet, a similar height to her. 

“Halt, traveller. Who are you that seeks passage into the lands of Lannister?” 

He spoke well, and was, by extension, highborn. Like as not he was a Lannister of Lannisport, bastard cousins to the main branch of the family, bitter and twisted from their lack of acknowledgment when it came to the main branch. 

“My name is Ser Brienne Tarth, my lord. I seek to journey to Casterly Rock, to speak with the lord there.” 

That seemed to stump the man, who did not speak for a few moments. A couple of men-at-arms had gathered behind him at this point, watching on. One of them rested his hands atop his longbow, an empty grin upon his face. 

“You are speaking with a Lannister already, wench. I am Ser Daven, Son of Stafford, cousin to my lordship. They say Brienne of Tarth is a fearless warrior above all else. Match steel with me, and I will believe you are who you claim to be.” 

Brienne recognised the name, though she knew not from where. Had Jaime mentioned his cousin Daven, or perhaps she had seen it inscribed on some extended family tree. She knew nothing of him aside for that, however. 

“I am not here to duel lions, my lord, but to love one. Allow me passage, for I am sure my Jaime will wish me to speak to him without damaging his cousin beforehand.” 

Daven seemed to bristle at the comment, but he did not move to further the option of combat, perhaps fearing the shame he may encounter should he be beaten in front of his gawping men. Instead, he turned to them. 

“Step forward Lester.” 

One of the older men, who had been stood further back than the others, came forward. Brienne noticed that he had lost an eye, and bore a wicked scar across his left cheek. 

“You served the boy king Joffrey during the war. Do you recognise the wench?” 

Lester looked at her for more than a few moments, scratching his greying hair, his one good eye flicking across her face. He was slow to think and to respond, but eventually he turned back to Daven. 

“Aye. I reckon I do. She put on a few years, but that be the wench at the wedding. Tall ‘un, not much to look at, to be true, but any man there would ‘ave her on top of his-” 

“That’s quite enough, Lester.” 

Daven waved away the guardsman, who returned to his cohort, a wide grin plastered across his lined face. The Lannister knight turned back to her then. 

“Apologies for that, my lady. I suspected it may be you, but can never be too sure. Allow me to saddle up my horse, and I will ride you the last few leagues to Deep Den, as your escort.” 

She silently acquiesced, and waited a few minutes, as Daven’s squire prepared his steed, and then they rode. 

She asked the Lannister knight questions, mostly about Jaime, but also on the state of the Westerlands, the court at Casterly Rock, and other more frivolous topics. He answered her happily enough, and spoke well of her love, and his young son. It turned out that he was Commander of the Guard for the Rock, and so was in charge of protecting his lordship. She was surprised when he told her that Jaime was staying the week at Deep Den, at the hospitality of Lord Lydden, before riding on for Peckledon, and then King’s Landing. Bran had told her that Jaime would leave his stronghold, but why? Surely it couldn’t have been for her? 

If that was the reason, then he had brought a grand retinue with him. They passed three more watchtowers, each manned with twenty men or more, though upon seeing Daven they all let them pass. At two of the towers she spied camp followers, women of low repute, and wandering minstrels, all entertaining the troops. 

A sense of trepidation entered the pit of her stomach as she approached the heavy, wooden gates of the Deep Den. It was the silly worryings of a girl, yet what if Jaime no longer loved her as he had? What if she had ridden all this way just for him to reject her? She had never been beautiful, and age had taken some of what little she had once had. Such thoughts were not befitting a knight of the six kingdoms, and yet think them she did. 

The gates opened with a heavy, onerous creak, and revealed the sprawling courtyard upon the other side. 

The Deep Den was a curious castle, in that, whilst it did have one, central keep, the bulk of the land was taken up with open spaces, various smaller forts making it impossible to pass further along the valley without passing through the courtyard of the Lydden homestead. 

Few of the men inside paid them much mind, but Daven called out to a groomsman, asking for where the Lord was, and he was met with a response. They dismounted, and followed on foot, entering the main keep. 

The halls were cold and drafty, stone walls mounted with bracketed torches to light their way. They went up a series of spiral staircases, and rose further up a tower, eventually coming out upon a small landing, a single door standing opposite the entrance. Daven gestured toward it, though she hesitated for a moment. It was noticed. 

“Do not fear this, my lady. There is not a man nor woman at the Rock who does not know that he still loves for you and lusts for you.” 

“Truly, I fear that he does, and that I am not now the woman he came to love. Much had changed since we last saw one another.” 

Daven had no more words of encouragment for her, and instead merely clapped her on the back, before disappearing down the stairs. A deep exhalation escaped her lungs then, and she stepped forward, pushing open the door. 

She did not pay notice to the layout of the room, nor the décor, and instead her eyes were instantly drawn to the figure stood at the window, his arms rested upon the balustrade, his back slightly hunched, and his golden hair shorn short. He did not turn to her, though the door creaked as she opened it, so he knew she was there. 

“I saw you in the courtyard, and thought I must be dreaming, and yet here you are.” 

He turned to her, his face no less handsome than she remembered it. His laughing eyes were more tired now, yet they sparkled more with wisdom. His face was more lined, yet he wore them well. He remained lean and strong, and still stood tall. Tears welled in the corner of his eyes as he looked upon her. 

“Are you a trick of the gods, or is my Brienne truly here?” 

“I am no trick, Jaime.” 

A smile passed over his face for a few moments, and they stood stock still for what seemed like an eternity, before simultaneously rushing forward to meet the other. They met in an embrace, their strong arms wrapped around each other, and their lips met quickly, a flood of passion and pent-up longing washing over them, before they pulled apart, still embraced tight together. 

“I was coming for you, yet you beat me to it, yet again. I do not know what to say. I have missed you seems like too much an understatement.” 

“Then do not speak, my lion. Neither of us have to, not now.” 

Her own words brought a blush to her cheek, for they shamed her. She was no poet, and her attempts at romance fell flat. Jaime laughed in his annoying yet irresistible manner, and brushed her cheek with the tips of his nimble fingers. 

“I have missed your voice too much not to hear it lecturing me, my maid, my knight.” 

“I am your maid no longer. Do you not remember?” 

“How could I forget?” 

Their lips met again, this time less eager, yet no less passionate. It was more tender, more loving, more earnest, as if they were children, kissing for the first time, yet they were not. This time she pulled away from him, and cupped his cheek in her large, clumsy hands. 

“I feared that you may have. It has been so long...” 

He did not wince at her words, and instead smiled, a light laughing escaping his lips. 

“You doubt yourself as much as always, but do not doubt me. You are my love, my always, and my forever. You are the woman I would wait for, my Brienne.” 

Tears welled in her own eyes now, and a few trickled down her cheeks, hot and salty, messy and ugly, yet she did not care, and neither would he. That was the joy of the love they shared. It had been forged through so much. War, loss, Cersei, duty, and honour... They had overcome all of it now. Every hand the gods had dealt them had brought them here, to the point where none else of it mattered. 

“You need wait no longer. I am freed of my vows to the throne, and ready to take my vows to you, if you would have me.” 

His eyes closed for a few moments, and a sadness fell over his face, even if only for a few seconds. He was thinking of Lyara, she thought, his first wife, who had given him his son. 

“We must wait a while longer to speak such vows, I think. You should meet Kevan before you do. For his sake, and for yours. I would not have you sign up for something you are not ready for. Being a father is more terrifying than any battle I have fought.” 

“He is your son, Jaime. I would meet him gladly. Is that all you would have us wait for?” 

Her right hand trailed down from his cheek, to rest first on his waist, and then on his arse, which was as tight and pert as ever, which ilicited a thick smile from him. 

“It has been some years since our last. I think we have earned another go. Lie down and I shall-” 

She placed her finger upon his lips, her cheeks flushing at the thoughts that passed through her head. She thought of trying a sultry voice, yet decided against it in moments. She barely managed to get her next words out as it was, so aroused was she. 

“I liked to imagine myself on top when I was alone in King’s Landing. We do that this time, my lion.” 

And so they collapse down onto Lord Lydden’s bed, the frame creaking under their movements, united as one once again, for the first time in such a very long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, readers. Sorry for the wait from the last chapter. Been a hectic couple of weeks on my end. Hopefully that chapter was worth it, and the final chapter will be out sometime next week. Its my 23rd birthday today, so naturally I found myself writing this in the evening. Think of it as some sort of birthday present from me to all of you, I guess. I hope you liked it. 
> 
> I will need a new project to start after this is all done. If any of you have any ideas of things you liked to read on here then I'm all ears, as I'm not quite sure what else people like to read aside from Braime stuff. 
> 
> Have a nice day!  
> \--JosefAik


	10. Tybolt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The culmination to the grand lovestory between Jaime and Brienne.

The days seemed to pass differently now, though of course they would. Before, she had him by her side, close as could be, physically and emotionally. Their dance had been played, and the final acts had fallen, leaving them together, whether through fate or choice, it did not matter. There had been many nights where she had doubted that time together, not including those where she had thought him to be an arse. How much more time could they have had if she had only proven to be less stubborn? Was she to blame for it all, or was it him for allowing it? Should he have taken her that day in the Dragonpit, told her how he felt truly? Would she have listened? 

She thought fate to be a flight of fancy now. What they had held was not pre-ordained. It had been wrought in the furnace of war, betrayal, and service. It had weathered opposition, and come forth all the stronger. In the end, it had been sharp enough to cut through any plate, even if Jaime had often been as dense as a blacksmith’s hammer. What he had never been was dull. 

It had been four days since she had helped to bury him beneath Casterly Rock. 

The pall of that day still hung over the home they had shared together. There was no greyness to the sky, instead it was cloudless, a glorious sun beaming down upon them all, which she was happy for. Jaime would not have wanted it to be gloomy and forlorn, not in his final days. Still, there was no place in this castle where memories of him did not haunt her. She could not sleep in their marriage chambers, for memories of their first night shared together plagued her. She had tried to attend council, but her thoughts were instead drawn to Jaime, even there. 

So she had come to the gardens, which sat on the highest level of the Rock, and where Jaime had loved, for here there was nothing but him. Her seat was comfortable, wicker branches woven tightly together, as favoured in the Summer Isles, and the cool gravel was refreshing against her bare feet. A light breeze whipped across her, which caused the same effect, and saved her from the effect of the son’s glare. 

He had been her Jaime in the hand, shown by their wedding bands, but it was not so simple in truth. She had not known they would reach that point, even when she had loved him from afar, oft without really knowing it. He had always gone back to Cersei, which had hurt, but not the last time. She had known. He had not been running to her, as a pup to a mother, but out of duty to his family. That was the kind of man he had been. He had seen hope in her, maybe, but in the end, whatever else she had been, she had still been his sister. Brienne knew not where Cersei Lannister had ended up, but Jaime had slept better knowing that he had done the right thing. 

Fifteen years they had shared together. Was that enough? Maybe it would never be enough, not when it could have been more, but it was more than she would have had if she had never met him. By the Gods, he had been annoying at first. The thought of it brought a smile to her face, yet also a tear to her eyes, which she quickly wiped away. It would not do to cry for him, not here. 

Much had changed in that time. The boy king had grown, and was a young man, now. He was no warrior, but had charmed the realm with his quick wit, and the ladies with his skill at the harp. He was a handsome youth, recently wed to the daughter of Lord Hightower. Peace had come with his reign, broadly speaking. 

She was fifty-four now, an old woman, near enough, though she had not lost her height, lines and wrinkles had weaned their way across her skin, and her blond hair had gone grey many moons before. Jaime had aged too, but he had never lost that twinkle to his eyes, nor the sheen to his golden locks. Age had not diminished him, the laughlines around his eyes becoming more prominent, and his kisses more tender and less eager. His passing had been no surprise. They had been given the chance to share one last moment, at least, knowing what was coming. It had been hard, of course, as if she had been letting part of herself go, though it had not truly hit her until days after that she would never hear his voice, nor see his smile, again. She had wept at that, though in private. 

He had not been the first loss, of course. Tyrion had passed a few months before, not aged eighty, but abed with his third wife, in his sleep, a belly full of wine. Jaime had mourned him, and the loss had hurt him, she had seen that. Maybe that had been the beginning of the end. The realm had felt the loss too, for Tyrion Lannister had been a capable Hand to young Brynden. He had been replaced by Gendry Baratheon, a fierce warrior and the commander of the king’s armies. Gendry lacked the political niceties of Tyrion, yet served well, for he countered the gentle decorum of the king. 

Lord Royce had died, too, killed during a raid by the mountain clansmen. Robert Arryn, as vindictive as ever, put the sword to the rabble, butchering most, and earning himself the nickname Darkrobin in the process. Highgarden had now passed to the eldest of Bronn Blackwater’s five sons, whilst Prince Manfrey and Lady Asha still ruled in Sunspear and Pyke respectively. 

Sansa Stark still ruled as Queen in the North, her two sons were now four, Harmund and Jothor joined by Brandon and Rickard, and one daughter, Katryn, though she was oft called Kat, in honour of her grandmother. In one of her letters, Sansa had expressed that the girl was a wild thing, a she-wolf, “as Arya had been”, with strong Stark features. Brienne had thought of riding north, to see Winterfell one last time, but that was a year ago, and much had changed since then. 

“Mother,” 

She turned her head slightly, a wistful glance cast at the source of the single word. She smiled at the sight. 

Jaime’s son, Kevan, was a knight now, a man of seven and ten years, and a lord, ever since the passing of his father. He was the very picture of him, with the same flashing green eyes, and cheekbones as sharp as a knifepoint. His hair had the same sheen, as if crafted from the very gold that had made the Lannisters so powerful. It hurt her slightly to see that, yet she felt bad for that. It was not Kevan’s fault he reminded her of his father so much. 

He wore red robes, with a gold trim, and they suited him. She knew that many of the serving girls wished for him, and why wouldn’t they. Still, he would give his virtue to some highborn maiden, though he had not yet chosen which. She hoped that he was wise enough to keep it until then, and not father some bastard son upon a serving wench. Love could be found outside of what was expected, she knew that better than most, yet she treasured Kevan, and she did not wish him to be used, nor for him to become another Robert Baratheon. 

In his arms he carried a bundle, and she held out for it. He took a step closer before speaking again. 

“I looked for you in your chambers. I did not think you would be here.” 

“Well I have been, for some hours now, in fact. This place reminds me of your father, of Jaime, and I do not wish to forget him, not for the rest of my lifetime.” 

She took the bundles of wrappings from Kevan, and allowed the fabric to fall away, revealing the fleshy face of her babe, his green eyes looking back up at her, as he reached out his small hand for hers, clutching her little finger in all of his. 

The maesters had called it a miracle when Jaime’s seed had quickened within her, and she had grown heavy with child aged fifty-two. They had been trying to give Kevan a sibling, of course, but their labours had been fruitless, until she had felt the telltale stirrings that she had seen in so many other women. 

“He will be our little bolt from the blue, then.” 

Jaime had laughed as he spoke those words, though his face had shown the relief he had felt, a beaming smile upon his face. The next nine months had been full of them, as he had cared for her loyally. He had been by her side near constantly, almost to the point of irritation. When he had been born, they had named him Tybolt, as he was their bolt from the blue. Remembering that day brought a smile to her face. Even through the hardships, Jaime had been there with her, and here was the product of that. She was glad that her son had gotten to meet his father, even if they had only shared a few months. Jaime had loved his little babe so dearly and so fiercely. Kevan had not been his first son, but, in truth, it had been the first time that Jaime had been a father. Tybolt had been another chance for him, but one he would never get to fulfil. 

“He prefers you to me, mother. By the Gods, he refuses not to cry when I hold him. I do not understand the mind of a babe.” 

Kevan had sat near her, not on the chair beside her, for that had been his father’s, but opposite her, watching her keenly. She did not need look back at him, instead too engrossed in the miracle swaddled in her arms. 

“You remind him of your father, and he misses him dearly, I think. Besides, you are a boy, and therefore clumsy. He probably fears that you will drop him.” 

There was no laughter between them, but smiles played upon both their faces. It seemed wrong to laugh, or to find enjoyment in this world now. Some light had gone out, and it would never be lit again. That did not mean that other lights would not be found though, she supposed. 

“I fear he has an advantage on me then. A babe may cry without judgement, but should a son do so for his father then he will seem weak. I miss him too, and yet I cannot show it.” 

She looked at Kevan then, and only now saw him truly. He was pale, his cheeks flushed, but aside from that he seemed ghostly, and his eyes were those of a tired man, a slight redness around them to show where the tears had been angrily swiped away. It was a hard thing, to lose a parent, especially when so young. Jaime had oft told Kevan of his real mother, Lyara Lefford, but this loss was different. He had been a child then, and could grieve, where he was a man now, and must need be seen as such. 

“He will cry to you, but not to me, and you can cry to me, if you ever need such. We three will miss your father more than any other, and many mourn him. It is a burden, being the son of Jaime Lannister. He was a great man, and such will be expected from you. I cannot shield you from that, for what good will hiding behind your mother’s skirts do? Be half the man your father was, and you will have done well, but I saw your father cry, too. He cried when he found out about your uncle Tyrion. I was there for him, and I am here for you. Do not fear it, Kevan.” 

The boy nodded his head to her words, and closed his eyes as she finished, breathing out gently, before opening them again. Some of the tiredness and the worry had escaped him, replaced by that same flashing playfulness that she had grown to love about Jaime’s. 

“I decided upon a match, mother. The girl that I wish to ask to the feast.” 

The feast in question was to celebrate Kevan’s accession. She would attend, though she was not sure she would find much joy there. Much of the talk had been about which of the girls Kevan would ask. Lord Crakehall’s girl would secure a powerful ally, though she was less comely than the daughter of Ser Flement Brax, the heir to Hornvale, who was a beauty, two years Kevan’s junior. Other lords had sent their daughters, granddaughters, sisters or nieces, in the hope they would ensnare the young lordling. Kevan had pushed most of them away, lost in thoughts all of his own. 

“And who have you chosen?” 

“Alyssa Farman.” 

She must have raised her eyebrow slightly at that, as Kevan did laugh now, though he caught himself quickly, and adjusted his posture. 

She was surprised, for Alyssa was a gangly girl, three years older than Kevan, with buckteeth, and awkward brown hair, with freckles upon her cheeks. She always looked uncomfortable in the dresses forced upon her by her septa, for which Brienne could empathize. She was an unlikely choice, though she approved of it. Alyssa was kind-hearted, yet clever. She lacked the ambition of the other suitors, and seemed to be fond of Kevan without his position. She was a good choice, even if the Farmans were only lesser vassals of the Rock. 

“Whatever makes you happy, my love. It is not for me to approve of your choices, though I am glad you chose Alyssa over the Brax girl.” 

Kevan would dress in his finest gowns, red gilded with gold, whilst Alyssa would wear her own family colours. Brienne disliked wearing red, and had never forgotten the blue of Tarth. She wore dresses rarely, as Jaime had never made her don them, but mayhaps for this occasion, to celebrate her two sons. She did not want to be the mourning widow, caught up in memories and regrets, and she knew that Jaime would not have wanted that for her either. There would never be another, but that did not meant she must live her life confined to her cell. 

“I have oft wanted to return to Tarth one day, one last time. To see the sapphire waters break against the cliffs of Shipbreaker Bay. When your brother has grown older, will you take me?” 

“Whatever you will, mother. I will be by your side as you travel.” 

That brought a genuine smile to her face, and she closed her eyes, to better picture the scene. She was there, looking out over Evenfall Hall, her two sons by her side, the sound of the waves in her ears. It almost saved her from the memories of his smile, of his laugh, but not quite. 

“It will not make your lives any easier, being his sons. You will be compared to him constantly. If men do so, and think you may be close to him, then you have done well, the both of you.” 

“He cannot understand you, mother. He is a babe.” 

She looked down into the happy eyes of her own child, as he gently gurgled, putting her little finger to his mouth, sucking upon the flesh ever so slightly. 

“I think you’re wrong. He can hear us.” 

She stroked the head of her child gently, feeling the soft, downy hair underneath her fingers, cupping it lightly, as she planted a peck of a kiss upon his forehead. 

“You are the child of Jaime Lannister. Many call him Kingslayer, but they did not know the great deed he did to earn that name. He fought at Winterfell, fending off the dead, and he tried to save thousands when the dragon came to King’s Landing. He was a hero, and yet the two of you will be his greatest triumph. I know that to be true.” 

She looked back up to Kevan, who angrily wiped at his eyes, before turning away slightly. Clearly her words had moved him. 

“Take your brother to his crib. I will sit with him soon. I just want a few more moments alone.” 

Her adoptive son acquiesced to her request, and took his brother back into the tunnels of the Rock, leaving her alone, save for the insects of the gardens. Still, she was never alone now. Not truly. 

“They will do you proud, my love. You will not see them, but I shall, and when we are reunited in the next world, I shall tell you all about the great deeds of the sons of Jaime Lannister, a hero of the Seven Kingdoms.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, that was the final chapter of this. I hope those of you that read it enjoyed it, and helped to scratch that Braime itch that I know a lot of you all have. I enjoyed writing it, and the culmination almost brought tears a few times, I am not ashamed to say. Maybe it was the same for you, I don't know. Thank you for all the hits, kudos, comments, support and bookmarks. They all mean a lot to me.  
> Until the next time  
> JosefAik


End file.
